Someone turns the lights off, and soon the little boys in the video begin singing, their voices eerily resembling those of women, though somehow purer and more ethereal. Beside me, he reaches for my hand and covers it with his. The rough carpet scrapes my legs as I slide closer to him. All around us our classmates are sprawled out in various positions, some watching the recorded concert, most talking amongst themselves and paying no attention whatsoever. We, for our part, are watching and listening to the children sing their hearts out, and maybe it could be called romantic, because after all it is beautiful, and he is lightly stroking my arm with his free hand.
Why couldn’t it always be like this, I wonder, when he leans his head on my shoulder, and I know I am more to him now than anyone else in existence? It’s as if by that one gesture, he tells me a truth I had long suspected but never known for sure: that I may not be particularly strong, either physically or emotionally, but what strength I have is what strength he needs to protect us both. From what, we don’t know yet; but our mutual fear is evident in how tightly we cling to each other, because after all, who can say whether it’s love or infatuation? Who can say whether a separation of a day, a week, a month, will part us forever?
I see this, and other things I can’t as easily define, in his soft green eyes, which I know will always be more beautiful than my own. If they are truly the windows to his soul, then his soul must be like a room suffused with dusty light falling through stained glass, with the voices of many thoughts and emotions echoing from the shadowy walls. And I wonder if one of those echoes is mine, a shimmering fairy that dances on the edges of his consciousness even when he sleeps, or if that echo is slowly fading into a half-forgotten memory, another shadow to grace the wall. He turns and smiles at me, almost a sad smile, but there is an air of peace about it--or is it resignation? What does he see when he looks into my eyes? It’s true they’re brown and rather unexciting, but then I wonder if he catches the little flecks of amber and gold that flicker at the center, because I am looking so deep into his own, he must see straight through these portals and into my soul.
He lies back on the floor, one hand beneath his head, and gazes at the ceiling--or rather, something beyond it that I can’t see. I reach out a tentative hand and brush my fingers across his face, marveling at the softly curving cheekbones, dark eyebrows, slightly crooked lips, and sculpted chin. He closes his eyes, his dark lashes hiding the emerald pools from me, as he withdraws into himself, or wherever it is he goes when his face takes on that peaceful yet pensive expression, and the delicate lines in his forehead begin to fade. I trace them with my finger, wondering why they are there at all, when he is so young and beautiful, and shouldn’t have a care in the world. If I were ever to put one there, I wouldn’t be worthy to live. Just watching him as he lies there quietly, awake and alive behind the appearance of sleep, I wonder how anyone or anything could ever hurt him, because he is so clearly at peace with all the world, and so it should be with him.
A rush of protectiveness overwhelms me as I gaze down at him, his features transformed by something I can only describe as innocence, vulnerability. His body is both stronger and harder than mine; yet suddenly I feel the need to shield him with myself, to let my own soft skin and slender bones be torn and broken, rather than let a single bruise darken his still form. And somehow by doing this, I will be able to shield his innermost being as well, surrounding his thoughts with mine, until we are utterly and completely within each other. Let my own mind be broken, let my own soul be crushed, let the lines crease my forehead; but it will all be worth it if I can only protect him.
He’s aware of none of these thoughts that sweetly torment me. Without opening his eyes, he takes my methodically caressing hand and presses it to his lips, gently, and yet with a hint of urgency, as if he believes we don’t have much time left. I can hardly bear it; everything in me wants to lean down and kiss those lips, and let all these confused feelings flow out of me so that he can feel them too, and know the extent of my bewildered love. Then the secrets I’ve buried away in my heart would finally be laid bare, and maybe I could begin to understand his, too, if he has any my mind could wrap itself around. But, though I hate myself for it, I am painfully conscious of our classmates’ roving eyes, as well as of my own sudden shyness. If I could dim the lights a little more, if we could be alone for just a moment--but a moment wouldn’t be enough. My heart is too full; there is too much I want to say, to do, to feel, that I don’t even know how to express.
It isn't sexual. It makes me angry just to think of someone labeling it as such, when it is something so much deeper and purer than that. The restless tingling in my head and hands is not raging hormones, as so many would believe. We are young, we are alive, we are more or less enamoured of each other; but what we feel, what I feel, is not desire, but reverence. He lies before me: not as an object, or a victim to be taken advantage of, but as an angel, something higher than myself that I dare not touch. To the objective eye, he is just another teenager in jeans and a white polo, in a room full of others like him; but then, to this same viewpoint, what am I? Nothing but a pretty girl with fading makeup, of average height and build, who thinks she is in love. Who hasn't seen it before? At our age, we come together for a brief moment, sear each other with the impulsive fires of our passion, and then go our separate ways, occasionally bearing the scars of the encounter. And I know that is how everyone else will see us. If they believe in Romeo and Juliet, they believe only in the death and despair that youthful love, unconstrained by wisdom and experience, inevitably brings.
His eyes flutter open and meet mine once again. I wonder if he can see the chaos behind them, or if they remain as placid and still as pools of rainwater after the sun has come out. I don't know, and he doesn't tell me. Instead he reaches out and touches my lips, almost as reverently as I touch him, and in his face I can see the same exquisite pain that wracks me. He doesn't kiss me. But he will, someday, somehow. Because this light that aches within us is so desperate to escape, to bare itself to the world, that I think we both know we won't be able to hide it for long. We won't call it love, yet. But it will be. I believe--I know--it will be.
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