Page 8 of The Story Of Us

“Why would I check on her?” It comes out harsher than I intended, and Izzy and Luke look confused by my outburst.

“Because you’re in the same class, and you’ll probably see her tomorrow before I do? I know you aren’t exactly friends with her, but you don’t have to be a dick.” Izzy stands up to leave, but I hold her arm and force her to sit again.

“Sorry for being a dick,” I mumble, frustrated at myself for snapping at her too. “But you’re not allowed to use that word. No swearing until you’re sixteen.”

She sticks her tongue out at me, and I pinch her nose until she swats my hand away.

“You’re so annoying.”

“So are you.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

“Okay, kids, that’s enough bickering.” Lucas interrupts us, probably sensing the even more immature insults that are about to come from both of us. “Isaac, stop being fiery with us just because you’re tired. Izzy, I’m sure she’s fine, but I’ll see if I can talk to her tomorrow.”

The thought of him talking to Violet makes my stomach drop, but I don’t know how I can tell him not to do so without being suspicious.

“Thanks, Luke, at least someone is nice.”

I pinch Izzy’s arm, and she does the same back to me, and then Luke does it too.

“You’re both exactly the same, and it is terrifying.”

I throw a scrunched-up napkin at him and grab mine and Izzy’s trays to dispose of them on the way out. We part ways as soon as we leave the hall. Izzy tells us that she wants to go and find her friends, and Luke says that he needs to find his girlfriend. It’s still a little weird to me that Luke and Jinhee are dating after being friends for so long, but when I think back to when she joined our group, it feels like they were meant to be.

Luke was the first to approach her, and although her English was limited at first, he always made an effort to include her in our conversations. Luke taught her English, and she taught him Korean, and I guess there’s something intimate about sharing a language and finding those deeper meanings that can’t come through just with translations. One word instantly comes to mind, one that Violet taught me and that managed to encapsulate everything I feel about her, but I can’t say it anymore.

Luke and Jinhee felt inevitable in the way that I thought Violet and I were. I convinced myself that the birthday we shared meant that we were fated, that all the small coincidences were just part of the invisible strings tying us together and leading us to one another.

The strings have unravelled now, though, gotten all tangled up and frayed, and I don’t know if there’s any way to put them back to how they were.

3

VIOLET

I’ve never felt so much dread getting ready for school before, but I know I’ll have no choice but to see Isaac today. With every action I do to get ready, it feels like I’m counting down to a monumental event - brush my teeth, I’m seeing Isaac in 30 minutes, wash my face, I’m seeing Isaac in 28 minutes, change into my uniform, I’m seeing Isaac in 20 minutes, brush my hair and tie it up, I’m seeing Isaac in 15 minutes.

I leave my room and knock on Avery’s door so we can walk to homeroom together, and I steel myself as best as I can, reassuring myself that the world won’t end when I see him. But then we’re walking through the corridor, and I see just the back of his head, and it feels like there’s a physical ache in my chest like my knees are about to give out, and I’ll collapse right where I’m standing. I stumble a bit, my feet trying to plant themselves into the ground, but I force myself to keep walking, and, luckily, Avery doesn’t notice.

She continues talking, and I continue pretending to listen, the same thing I did with Izzy the other day where I just murmur in all the right places because I can’t focus on anything but him as he enters the classroom. I suddenly wish I’d gotten up earlier, dragged Avery out of bed earlier, or just done anything to avoid having to walk past his desk. If just seeing the back of him has me falling apart this much, I don’t know what actually seeing his face will do to me.

I wonder if he’s changed his glasses over the summer like he usually does. Last year, he FaceTimed me while trying on new ones, asking for my opinion on all of them and ultimately going with the round pair that I thought looked best on him. It was a change from the square ones he’d been wearing for the past few years. The rounded frames made his features look sharper, but not in a harsh way—it just felt like I was seeing him in high definition.

I don’t have to wonder if he’s cut his hair, though, because it looks exactly the same as it has every September, slightly longer on the top than the sides so that it covers his forehead without being too messy. I loved it when his hair would get longer, would run my fingers through it, and play with it at any chance I could get. Sometimes, when it was long enough, he would even humour me and let me make tiny braids with it. Every time he got it cut, he would come and find me after, saying that it felt better when I scratched his head while it was shorter. I try not to think about all the times he would play with my hair, too, and how much I miss the comfort of it.

I stop thinking about anything else to do with him and tune back into what Avery is saying. She’s complaining about something, but I haven’t heard enough to figure out what. By the time I do, we’ve entered the classroom and are being greeted by Mr. Victor.

“Violet, Avery.” He always names every student as they walk through the door, his informal way of taking the register so he doesn’t have to waste time calling out everyone once we’ve all settled down.

“Good morning, sir.” We reply in unison, and Avery lets out a huff as we walk towards the same desks we’ve sat at for the past six years. She drops her bag off her shoulder and drags it across the floor, and it lightens my mood a little to see how dramatic she is.

But then I see him in my peripheral, just a glimpse of his side profile, and it’s enough to have my stomach feel like it’s weighed down with lead.

He’s turned in his chair, chin resting on folded hands as he talks to his friends. He hasn’t changed his glasses, the thin round frames, the same ones that I picked out last year, and I don’t want to think too much about why he hasn’t changed them.

I thought he hadn’t noticed me walking past, but as I take my seat in the back row, I can feel his eyes on me. I used to think there was a magnetic pull between us. Even before we started dating, every time I looked at him, he would already be looking at me. I could always tell as if I could physically feel the way his eyes would trace me, and I hate that that instinct still hasn’t gone away.

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