Every Little Thing

14

We choose a quiet corner to sit in. Reed hardly says a word as he opens his book—titled She, I now notice—as I open my own and begin to read.

And it's enthralling. The way the author describes anxiety, the pondering of metaphorical and physical things, has me hooked on every single word. She makes my anxiety sound like a natural, human reaction rather than a problem. A breakdown of different sciences rather than an overall issue.

It makes sense, suddenly, all of it does. The overthinking. The reevaluating. The overall panic. It all makes sense.

About ten minutes after I started my book, Reed taps my shoulder. I look up at him, and he smiles, pointing to a line in his own.

"She did not believe me when I told her that she was special, and perhaps that is what made her so."

"Flocon de neige," he says brightly, and I just reread the sentence, over and over, breathless. He nudges a shoulder into my own. "I told you so."

I give a small, shaky laugh, and he peers over my shoulder.

"Any good quotes in yours?"

Nodding, I flip back a few pages and show him one of the crisp, new pages.

"One day, someone is going to change everything in your life. Someone is going to come along and scare you in all the best ways, challenge you, make you laugh, make you cry. Someone is going to make you so happy that you're afraid of the feeling itself, because you don't want to lose them. And you know what the best part is? You won't lose them. If they're the right ones, you will never lose them."

"Hm," Reed says, "That's beautiful."

"Yeah," I say weakly, hoping he can't hear my heartbeat, pounding like a drum.

"But is it true?" he asks, softly, shyly. "I mean, is there really a perfect match for everybody?"

"I like to think so," I reply, and his eyes meet mine, just for one heart-stopping moment.

"Me, too."

And with that, we go back to our books as if nothing's happened, when in fact, everything has.

________

After a while, I peek over at him, and I'm shocked at what I see. An intense expression, brows dipping towards his eyes, glasses balanced towards the end of his nose as he reads the book, looking as if nothing else possibly matters right here, in this moment.

And perhaps it doesn't. Perhaps nothing else matters but me, him, our books, today, this moment, this very second. Maybe life isn't about living for, but rather living in. Maybe it's not about waiting, it's about starting. Not about chance, but about fate.

Maybe life is all about living.

Before I can think any further, Reed looks up at me, smiling when he realizes that I'm already staring. Heat infuses my cheeks; I mutter a quick apology.

"It's fine," he says, "I'm finished, actually."

I frown, and he jumps in quickly. "It's a really short book. But what really got to me was the ending. Want me to tell you about it?"

I nod; of course I do. Reed scoots in closer.

"Okay, so this entire time, he's been talking about this girl," he says, using his hands as he speaks, "That he met exactly once. He spent a night in the city with this girl, and ever since, he's been in love with her. Anyways, he spends the entire book describing her, talking about her, how he in love he is with her, how incredible that one night was, how they kissed. And it's beautiful and awful because this entire time you know that he hasn't seen her since."