Today is like every other day, except that it is not.

I often sit on the bench just outside your classroom, watching these twenty-something year olds and wondering how happy smiles could fit in tired faces. It is torture, but, I do this to myself every day. I have come to like the wistfulness. Because it means that I am still able to feel. Other days, I leave campus and hit the bars close by. I see students in there on school nights and wonder if this is what it is like to live: partying and asking for extended deadlines.

I have come to know your schedule by heart now and I know that you have a Thermodynamics class by 3 today. Today is like every other Thursday, except that it is not. Because, I could be deluded, but did you just look at me? You see, I am so used to people looking through me; at me and away; not at me at all. But, did you just— ? I never felt so seen.

You, with the good hair. Hair so dark, it shines. Beautiful. Possessing a way with words that leaves people speechless; others, entranced. It makes sense that you see me. You, not of this world. Ethereal. But, I know, in the space that my heart should sit, that I do not deserve it.

It is some minutes past 4 and the class ends early today. Of course it does; today is different. l look up into tired eyes. Eyes that hold mystery. Eyes with purposely smudged eyeliner. I know a real rockstar when I see one and — you did it again! You see me! But, he sees only you. And I haven't felt jealousy in forever. You are talking and he is listening, enraptured. I wonder if he listened that hard in the lecture.

You both say goodbye, because he takes a different route home from school from you. Thankfully. I remain seated as you walk away and I pay the price because you do not look at me again. Until later, in the cool of the evening, when you are sitting on the set of stairs near your hostel reading from your phone.

You look up at me and this time your eyes are less tired, more… wistful. And I have never felt more understood. There is recognition in them now but you stay quiet until I ask what you are reading. They hold a question for me, too, but you answer mine instead. It is a book about a woman who lost a friend and in turn, her will to live.

I do not know how to answer the question in your eyes, so I ask another: if you feel the way the heroine in your book does, even in the slightest. And it is a fountain. I opened the fountain and feel no regret whatsoever.

“I don't think I have an actual death wish. pause. It's more of an erasure wish. pause. That way, my family doesn't get to mourn. longer pause. No, that's phrased wrong. Sorry. So they don't have to mourn. Just uprooted cleanly from memory. Just… gone. Without a single trace. Without a mark in history. Now, that's the sad part…”

I understand. And we sit in silence for so long. Each lost in her thoughts. Because I understand now that you can see me, really see me. And it is a feeling like none I know. But, I get scared. Because I do not want you to end up like me. You, with the brightest future. I refuse to let you end up like me. So, I do the stupidest thing.

I pick up a pen.

Even I am surprised. I usually can not. I do not know why I did it. It makes no sense whatsoever. But, it is my protest against your erasure wish. It is all I have. You turn to me, another question dancing in your eyes. There is a girl watching. Absentmindedly, at first, because she is on her phone, texting. She gasps now. “How are you doing that?”

You glance at her and look back at me. More questions are dancing now and I think that is the beauty of your eyes. The curiosity. The need to know. I put the pen down and wonder how you are going to handle the situation. “Doing what?” You turn to the girl and I miss your eyes on me; your scrutiny. We are going with gaslighting, I see. I know you catch my smile but you remain facing the girl. She shakes her head and walks away.

“Why are you here?” You speak low and your eyes are back on me; fearless. You, with the singing voice. You, with the magic to make me feel real. I tell you my story. Because you make me want to. I used to go here. A couple years back. I tell you everything. My name. His name. The bastard that cut me short because of his ego. Their names. The other girls in an engineering class. Where my last Thermodynamics class held. Everything as I remembered.

There are tears in your eyes now. The questions stopped dancing. And I feel even more wistful, because I no longer have my tears. We sit in silence for a while. Then, you do something unexpected. You put your phone to your ear and start laughing. “I have an idea.” I start laughing too when I hear it. It is brilliant, in the simple way jokes are. A magic trick with the pen. With a new audience.

Today was like every other day, except that it was not.

~♦~

The coming week will bring laughter.

You will talk to that boy that has eyes only for you and I will do my bit with the pen and he will ask: “how did you do that?”, awe and a little fear mixing. You will tell him that magicians do not reveal their secrets and we will both laugh, quietly.

Hopefully, your colleagues do not turn you into a one-woman circus.

The coming week will bring laughter, except that it brings something more. Purpose.

Another pop quiz is around the corner and I tell you. You, with the softest heart. You convince your colleagues to read up on the course. Some of them do. Most of them do not. But, they all give you questioning looks after the Theory Of Machines pop quiz — and some of them come up with their theories about you.

She must be sleeping with the professor.

Isn't the woman in charge of the course this year?

So? Didn't she hint that she's bi?

You have a point.

Maybe this is not an ego-stricken misogynistic mad man with a gun, but, words can hurt. My purpose, I am sure of it, is to protect you. Maybe this is why I stayed. And I, sure as Einstein's hair, will do what I have to…

There is a rumour mill in every class, you tell me. And I wonder if this is what it is like to live in this time, if the happy smiles are all fake. I did not tell you what your classmates said about you behind your back but you must have known. You, with the ears of a bat. You, without a care in the world about what people say.

It is sid & nancy in your ears and I walk beside you, content. It is the sixth time you played that already and I want to ask if you are okay. And I know that you are not. You suddenly ask if I can hear the music and I only nod. We get to your hostel and you choose to sit and read without going in first.

It is Kiss From A Rose now and I do not wonder how you can read with the music on. Instead, I think about how similar we are; how that was the song I was listening to with my books in front of me when the gun man came in.

However, the memory no longer seems to hurt. You are looking at me now and perhaps, this is the reason it does not hurt. Your eyes are alive with questions again and you leave them unspoken.

I reflect — and I bask.