twenty-five days of classes left.
my imaginary clock ticks down and i begin to worry.
twenty-five days,
twenty-five chances to finally approach you.
or maybe, twenty-two chances.
because i know i will fret and flee
at least thrice,
because i am a coward for you
- the boy in the back of the room
YOU ARE READING
glances ; pjm
Short Storyin which their actions, unseen glances, and unveiled gestures spoke louder than words
