I quickly run outside, hoping no one saw me. My head is full of too many thoughts, too many impossible, twisting thoughts that make it hard to breathe. How did I fall exactly under those stupid, irritating charms of Elliot? But what messes with my mind the most—what makes it twist and spin in ways I cannot control—is that he smelled like Rafael. Somehow, somewhere along the way, the scent clung to him, whether he wore Rafael's sweater or t-shirt, I didn't even stop to look. My body reacts before my brain can, leaning in just a little, inhaling more of it, letting that warmth, that faint familiarity settle against my skin. And for a moment, a terrifying, dizzying, delicious moment, I don't see Elliot at all. All I see is Rafael. I see his smile, the way his eyes narrow when he's amused, the curve of his lips when he teases, the heat in his presence that makes my chest tighten in a way no one else can. My mind is spinning, my senses betraying me, and I cannot make sense of anything that's happening. I feel his hands around me, Elliot's hands, but every inch of me registers Rafael instead. My thoughts run wild, uncontrollable, almost absurd in their intensity, and I can't tell where imagination ends and reality begins. The air seems thicker, heavier, electric somehow, and I'm trapped in the middle of it, paralyzed by something I've wanted for too long to name, too long to even admit to myself. And then he speaks my name, Elliot's voice breaking through like a knife through fog, sharp, real, undeniable, and it snaps me back into a world where Rafael isn't here and never is in moments like this. No matter how much I want it, no matter how many times I let my mind drift, Rafael would never be the one holding me now. Panic mixes with anger, embarrassment, and a rush of adrenaline. I push Elliot away, once, twice, each shove sharper than the last. He tries to hold me a second time, but my hands are fast, desperate, and the world feels like it's moving too quickly. Books start tumbling from the nearby shelves, pages fluttering like wings, and his panic gives him no choice. He lets go, his hands retreating as though burned. I take a trembling breath, my heart hammering so loud I swear the walls are shaking, and I let my body collapse against the corner of the room, alone at last. Now, sitting here in this quiet, lonely space, packing my things for tomorrow, my mind cannot stop replaying it, twisting it over and over as if to punish me. Every movement, every accidental brush, every breath he took near me is magnified, distorted, replayed in slow motion and too fast all at once. I need quiet, real quiet, somewhere I can breathe without the pounding of the canteen music reaching me, without the chatter of voices from the birthday preparations for Mary, without anyone's laughter or questions or even well-meaning advice pulling me into a place I cannot bear to be. I need space, solitude, a place to let my thoughts settle, or at least to try. My fingers tighten around the straps of my bag. Maybe the chapel will be empty. Maybe there, the silence will listen to me and not judge me, not remind me of Rafael or Elliot or the tangled mess of everything in my chest. I just need to go there, just for a little while, to sit and feel the air without someone else's presence cutting through it, to let my head clear enough to think, to remember, to breathe. Maybe there, just for a moment, I can let the world slow down enough for me to decide what I'm really feeling.
I wrap my arms around myself as I step outside, the cold biting through the thin fabric of my sweater, and for a moment I wonder if I made a mistake leaving the warmth of my room. My breath forms small clouds in the air, curling and fading almost as quickly as my thoughts. I start down the stairs, each step echoing softly against the stone, each one bringing me closer to the canteen, closer to the world I want to avoid but cannot entirely escape. And then, as if the universe has a cruel sense of timing, I smell it again—the scent that always seems to unravel me from the inside, that scent that has me under a spell I do not fully understand. It is Rafael. It is unmistakably him. The air around me thickens, heavy, charged, and my legs suddenly feel like they belong to someone else entirely. I freeze halfway down the stairs, one hand gripping the railing, the other pressed against my chest, and I can't decide if I want to keep moving or stay rooted where I am. Every nerve in my body stretches tight as though someone has wound me like a coil ready to spring, and I realize, with a jolt that makes my stomach twist, that I am completely undone by the thought of him. For a few seconds I try to convince myself it's just a coincidence, that maybe it's some leftover scent in the hallway or someone else's perfume mixing with the cold air. But I know better. My eyes shut briefly, hoping to steady my racing pulse, and when I open them, the world seems sharper, almost cruel in its clarity. The moment feels impossibly heavy, like the air itself is pressing down on me, making each decision—keep walking, run, turn back—feel monumental. I start moving, just a little, my feet hesitant, my body half-inclined to flee from the power of this spell that has me trapped. And then I hear it—my name, clear, unmistakable, slicing through the tension like a knife through silk. "Anna," Rafael says, his voice carrying across the courtyard, ringing loud and true, each syllable pulling at something deep inside me. I stop immediately, my body stiff, my heart leaping as though it has forgotten how to behave in the presence of him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, I lift my gaze, and there he is. His face, tense, stressed, every line of it drawn tighter than usual, framed by the faint glow of the streetlights and the lingering traces of the cold evening. He looks at me, and in that instant I know I am in trouble. Not the kind of trouble anyone else could see or understand, but the kind that reaches down into your chest and twists everything inside you into knots. My mind races, spinning with questions, excuses, and half-formed denials, but none of it matters because he is here, watching, waiting, and somehow already knowing everything I am trying to hide from myself. I want to move, to take another step forward or back, but my limbs refuse to obey. The scent is stronger now, closer, curling around me in ways that make my knees weak and my thoughts muddled. I want to run, but the sound of his voice holds me in place, tethered, vulnerable, aware of every heartbeat, every inhale, every shiver caused by the cold and by him. My fingers press harder against the folds of my sweater as if trying to shield myself from more than just the chill, but it's useless. He sees me, every flicker of hesitation, every trace of desire I try to bury, and I know without a doubt that whatever distance I thought I could maintain between us is gone, evaporated the moment he called my name. The world narrows to him and me, the stairs, the scent, the night air, and the dangerous possibility that I am completely, irrevocably caught in this orbit. And as I stand there, frozen yet aware of every tiny movement, every subtle shift in his expression, I realize that nothing I thought I controlled matters anymore. Rafael is here, and I am at his mercy, both terrified and exhilarated by it.
"You weren't going to say goodbye, were you?" His voice cuts through the night air, low, steady, and carrying that weight that always makes my chest tighten. I open my mouth to respond, "Of course I wou—" but before I can even finish, he interrupts me, his eyes locking onto mine like he can see everything I am trying to hide. "No, you weren't. When were you going to, anyway? You didn't come to help prepare Mary's birthday, and if I hadn't come here, we wouldn't have met at all. Tomorrow, you leave early in the morning, everyone else will still be asleep, including me. And you… you were just going to slip away like nothing happened?" His words tumble over each other, fast, heated, and somehow impossible to argue with. My mind falters, scrambling for a defense, an excuse, a single word that might justify my silence, but none comes. He's right, and I know it. I didn't want to see him. Not tonight. Not here. Not when tomorrow I would leave, stepping away from this school, this weight of expectation that had wrapped itself around both of us. Exams are done. I'll go home for good, and then return next term, and in that space, maybe I could forget, or maybe I wouldn't. Mama accepted my request, thinking I would spend the time revising, but I knew, in truth, it would be impossible to focus while my thoughts kept dragging me back to him. And yet, I also knew that I could not spend the entire break watching him from a distance, waiting for moments I would never get. I had already told Mama I wanted to go home, and in my heart, I knew it was a small mercy to escape. And yet, standing here now, listening to him, feeling the warmth of his presence, I realized how much I had underestimated how difficult it would be to avoid him. I lift my eyes to meet his, and my gaze lingers longer than I intend. His lips, perfectly shaped, just slightly parted as he waits for my response, threaten to undo all my resolve. I remind myself, silently, that nothing has happened between us—not truly—but the memory of what he said earlier about kissing me, the way it lodged itself in my mind, makes my breath catch. That was my first wish, my secret thought the very first time we started talking for the very first time last year, and now, it feels impossibly close to becoming something real, yet still just out of reach. Words fail me. I am utterly speechless, caught between the urge to run and the pull to stay, caught in the gravity of him, of this night, of everything unsaid. And then, as if the universe is aware of the tension tightening around us, the lights around the school flicker and die, plunging everything into darkness. My heart leaps, a startled bird trapped in my chest, and I cling to the nearest thing steady—his hand. Somehow, despite the darkness, it feels like the world is safer, smaller, manageable, simply because he is there. We sit like that for a long moment, quiet, the night holding us in a tense suspension of thought and feeling, and I let myself breathe, letting my fingers find his, squeezing lightly, memorizing the warmth, the steady pulse beneath the skin. Finally, I manage to speak, my voice soft, uncertain: "How's… the preparation going?" His answer comes easy, and for the rest of the night, the world falls back into ordinary shapes. Balloons, ribbons, music, laughter—all of it is about Mary's birthday, nothing more, nothing less. And for the first time in what feels like hours, my racing heart finds a rhythm, steady, manageable, no more heart attacks, no more dizzying pulls toward him, just the quiet, familiar hum of friendship, of plans, of a world where we can exist side by side without the chaos of unspoken things consuming us. And in that small relief, I realize how dangerously close I had been to losing myself in thoughts of him, and yet, how impossible it is to pretend that the pull, the tension, the spark, has ever truly gone away.