Page 15

Veronica

V eronica’s migraine struck before the first half of Introductory Psychology was over.

It wasn’t her fault. Mr. Griffin kept glancing at her—every single minute. Each time their eyes met, a chill slid down her spine, sharp as a scalpel. It felt like he was peeling her apart, layer by layer, with nothing but a gaze.

The anxiety festered, whispering that he wasn’t just a substitute teacher—that somehow, he knew something about her. The thought burrowed deep, twisting into a migraine that had refused to let go since morning.

“Is it really that bad?” The back of Shiro’s palm presses gently on Veronica’s forehead, testing her body’s temperature.

“Not the worst I have ever had, but yes, it’s pretty awful.” Her eyes squeeze shut as a loud throb presses against her skull. “I really thought I could hold it till you’re done, but…” She drags air sharply through her teeth, her eyes shifting briefly to the large field as the chatter and hoots of athletes pierces the mid-evening air.

“I know,” Shiro murmurs, his eyes clouded over with worry. “I don’t even want you to wait in this condition. My problem is how to get you home now.”

He looks around for a possible solution, perhaps a player going home and coincidentally kind enough to offer to drop her off.

“I’m sure I can find my way.” Veronica tucks her hand into her blazer’s pocket, fishing out her cell phone.

“Okay, I think Banks can drop you off,” Shiro suggests. “He sprained his ankle. Coach Crawford was just gonna bench him, but he said he would rather go home.”

“Banks?” Veronica asks, wary of this suggestion.

“Yes, Banks,” Shiro repeats.

She shakes her head, a slight disapproving frown etched on her face. That doesn’t sound like a great idea at all.

Banks makes it obvious in every encounter that he very much still likes her. If her heart isn’t currently occupied by someone else, this would have been a nice encounter that might lead somewhere. But all she can think about these days is Raidon. The only man she wants to talk to is Raidon. She’s not sure she’s prepared for how awkward the ride is going to be if Banks keeps flirting.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Shiro breaks into her thoughts. “I can tell him you are a bit under the weather. He won’t bother you with his verbal love letters, I promise.”

“Are you sure?” Her hand clasps tighter around the strap of her backpack.

“Definite.” He gives an affirmative nod, then gently pats her arm before walking off.

Veronica watches the two boys meet by the field. A short, lively exchange passes between them. Across the field, Banks glances at her briefly, flashing her a charming smile. And her stubborn heart refuses to flutter.

Cute boys’ smiles used to cause her to blush, regardless of her relationship status. Their flirtatious winks, the casual way they always run their fingers through their dark hair—these small gestures used to move her. But now? Nothing. Not even a flicker.

It’s like Raidon has magically bound her to him, leaving no space for anyone else. And to think he hasn’t even asked her to be his girlfriend.

“Vee,” Shiro’s voice interrupts her thoughts. He’s standing next to her, Banks right beside him. She doesn’t even realize when they crossed over from the field.

“I honestly never knew your house was on the same route as mine,” Banks comments, his smile still present, making his dark brown eyes sparkle.

“Me too.” Veronica shoves her hands inside her blazers’ pockets, rocking on her heels awkwardly. If he knew where her house was, would he have been showing up at her doorstep unannounced? Picking her up for school and dropping her off?

That would have been a cute love story. Like in the movies.

“Hang on, let me grab my keys,” Banks says, jogging away, and disappearing through the double door to the locker room.

“Don’t forget to take medication and get some sleep.” Shiro places his palm on her forehead again, his bluish-gray eyes scanning her face. “I’m gonna stop by later. Do you want me to get you anything when I’m coming?”

“Maybe Pizza and Pepsi?” she suggests, a soft grin on her lips. “I want two cans.”

“Done,” Shiro chuckles softly.

“Let’s go.” Banks returns, a varsity jacket thrown over his broad shoulders and a key dangling in his hand.

“See you later.” Shiro throws his arms around her in a quick hug, patting her head gently before pulling away.

The walk with Banks out of the school is a quiet and awkward one. For Veronica, it’s out of character for Banks to be near her without some flirtatious banter. She doesn’t know what Shiro told him that suddenly made the boy so quiet, just like she wanted him, except she didn’t think it would be this awkward.

“Are you okay?” Banks finally breaks the silence.

“Yeah, yeah.” She nods, forcing out a smile to ease the tension. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” he asks again, his warm eyes shadowed with concern.

“Okay…” He nods, a smile just a ghostly presence on his lips now.

As they reach the parking lot, she feels the sudden vibration of her phone against her hip. Digging her hand into the pocket of her blazer, she retrieves the phone, the buzz louder now.

The onscreen name evokes a sensation akin to an invisible embrace. And suddenly, she finds herself smiling.

“Hi,” she says the moment she presses the phone to her ear.

Out of the corner of her eye, a curious glance from Banks catches her attention.

“Are you having an after-school program or something?” Raidon sounds rather frustrated. And hearing his deep voice, her heart leaps with excitement.

“Sorry?”

“You close at 2:30 pm, or no?”

She peels the phone off her ear to check the time. It’s 3:05. “Yeah, why?”

“What are you still doing inside then?” he demands.

Pausing by Banks’ black Saab, her brow furrows even deeper. A resounding click echoes in the parking lot as Banks unlocks the car.

“Hey.” She switches the phone to another ear, her right hand hovering over the handle of the car’s passenger door. “What are you on about, exactly?”

“I’m…” he starts, then pauses.

“What?” She throws an apologetic smile at Banks, who is by the driver side, patiently waiting for her.

“Are you still inside the school right now?”

“I’m already out,” she replies impatiently. “But what exactly is the problem? You sound like you are waiting for me or something which is crazy because I spoke to you a few hours ago and you were in Russia.”

“I never told you I was in Russia.” His reply suddenly fills her with hopes and questions, especially hope. She glances around the parking lot, searching.

“What’s going on?”

“I think it’s a bad idea to step into that car.”

“What the—” she begins, only to be interrupted by a soft honking on her left. Her head snaps in the direction.

A shiny black car is parked a short distance to her left in the teacher’s parking lot. Even with tinted windows, she senses his gaze intensely scrutinizing her.

“Are you for real right now?” She slams Banks’ car door shut.

“I have been waiting for hours,” Raidon murmurs, the quiet rustle of paper evident in the background.

“Is everything okay?” Banks walks around the car to her, curiosity etched in the furrow of his brows. “Is the car here for you?”

She nods, peeling the phone off her ear slowly.

Banks eyes glide to where her eyes are fixated. Then he turns to her. “Your boyfriend?”

“Um, yes.” The words leave her mouth without much thought. Only realizing what she has said by the echo in the wind, her head snaps to Banks.

He doesn’t particularly look angry. There’s a distant look, though, quite like disappointment, but not of a person that feels led on. Because there’s never been a time where she told him yes or an instant she made it look like she was thinking about it.

“I, uh, I’m sorry?” she murmurs, suddenly unsure of the right phrase.

“Well, guess I never really had a chance.” A rather devastating sigh breaks out of his lips. But that boyish smile returns almost immediately, expelling the momentarily shadow clouding his face some seconds ago.

“But can I at least have a hug?” The request takes her off guard. But it’s just a hug, right?

“Um, sure.”

Immediately, she finds herself in his surprisingly warm and comforting embrace, his muscular arms holding her close. But the longer it lasts, the more awkward it becomes.

She shifts in his arms, clearing her throat to signal him to loosen his hold.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his head, a shy smile lifting the curve of his lips. And there they are, the famous dimples that captivates many girls—including her, not so long ago.

She glances at Raidon’s car. What exactly has that man done to her? A hug has never happened, much less a kiss. Their bond, until this point, has been solely based on meaningful conversations. And yet she’s completely and utterly enamored with him.

This is so unhealthy.

“Bye,” she beams, waving at Banks.

“Goodbye, dream girl.”

Although they have waved at each other before in the parking lot, this one feels like a real goodbye. No more flirtatious smiles, comments or winks across the hallways.

With a deep exhale, she shoves her hands inside her blazer pockets then begins to head to Raidon’s car. And the closer she approaches, the faster her heartbeats. Excitement buzzes in her veins. Somehow, it feels like there is a whole nother world, better than this, waiting for her just behind those tinted glasses.

Just as she’s about to get to the car, the driver’s door bursts open, revealing a man with a gun, dressed in green cargo pants and a black shirt.

A soldier. She’s so used to seeing them now.

He opens the door of the backseat, ushering her inside. The moment she’s in the car, she’s surrounded by the comforting scent of sandalwood and rose, a gentle fusion of earthy and floral.

“Um, hi?” she whispers, confused, because doesn’t even spare her a glance or at least make any bodily movement to show that he’s at least aware of her presence in the car.

He remains motionless, gazing out the window. His rigid stance and tight jaw mirrors the stiffness he displayed on their coffee date when Waylen was placing his order.

“Hello?” she waves her hand in front of him.

“Who is he?” Finally, he speaks, his eyes still fixed on the window, or whatever intrigues him behind the tinted glass.

His gaze finally meet hers, golden eyes reflecting a fierce internal struggle. “That’s not your Japanese friend.”

He appears to be wrestling with a feeling similar to anger. His perfectly arched brows are curved down. But he still looks so breathtaking. And she’s struck anew by the spellbinding beauty that makes it hard to breathe. Highlighted by the darkness of the car, he looks ethereal, like the moon indeed.

“A friend.” She shrugs, too focused on trying to wrap her head around why he’s here, to ponder over why he is so particular about Banks.

“You’ve never told me about him.”

“He’s also from Shiro’s soccer team,” she tells him. “He was dropping me off at home because Shiro couldn’t.”

Without another word, he returns his gaze to the window, observing Banks’ car leave the parking lot rapidly.

“Is there a problem?”

He veers away from the window, his eyes falling on her. The shadow obscuring them moments before starts to move, unveiling the radiant, fiery light she glimpses in her dreams. It’s a slow and steady transformation, like dawn pushing back the night.

His jaw relaxes, a smile almost forms on his lips, but then fades before it fully materializes.

“I didn’t like it.” His voice is quiet, but the weight of it settles deep in her bones. His gaze drops to his hands, and for the briefest moment, she catches a tremor in his left one. But before she can process it, he quickly covers it with his right hand.

“You, um,” she brushes a strand of hair off her lip and looks back at his face, a sensation of tension gripping her chest. “You didn’t like what?”

“When he touched you.” The words are raw, barely restrained. His breath sharpens, chest expanding with a force of something he can’t quite explain.

“And considering it further, the thought of seeing that again doesn’t sit well with me.” After a pause and hesitation, he locks eyes with her, his gaze intense as if seeking to etch the next word into her very being. “I don’t want another man to touch you.”

Her heart skips. It’s not the words that steal her breath. It’s the way he says them so carelessly, as if they hold no significance at all.

But they do.

“Why?” The word slips out, fragile and laced with something dangerously close to hope.

His brow furrows. “Do you need a reason?”

“Yes, actually. I do.”

He leans back in the leather chair, exhales, and studies her with such intensity that she feels a prickling heat on her skin. “When I figure out the reason, I’ll tell you.”

She might spend a really long time waiting for this reason. Because this is probably new to him. Maybe he has never really liked someone before. But she desperately needs him to understand what he’s feeling. She needs him to be able to define exactly this thing that lingers between them.

And most of all, she needs him to accept it. Accept her. Just like Ian Petrakis did…or at least, something close.

“So, why did you come here?” she asks, pushing away the thought that gnaws at the edge of her mind.

“You wanted to see me,” he replies.

She smiles, her eyes taking him in with a fresh, new perspective. His white hair is pulled into the usual half-bun, a few loose strands falling over his sharp profile.

The soft glow from the car’s lamp casts a delicate shadow over him, accentuating the dark beauty of his features.

She wants to touch his face, feel the silkiness of his skin against her fingertips.

“What’s that?” Her gaze drops to the sketchpad she has noticed on his lap since, but only paying attention to now.

“You didn’t tell me about this hobby.” A quiet accusation lingers in her voice as she lifts the book to her hand.

She flips to the first page and her breath catches.

From the meticulously sketched paper, a girl’s gaze meets hers. A cotton top, arm warmers, and a tote bag hanging off her shoulder.

Her hair is in a French braid, a few loose curls framing her face.

Her.

Her fingers tremble as they trace the graphite lines, the delicate shading of her face.

She swallows hard, lifting her gaze. And he is already watching her.

“It’s beautiful,” she beams. “Thank you.”

Returning her gaze to the book, she turns to the next page.

Her again.

She’s in her school uniform. Her usual maroon tie and skirt are shaded in smooth pencil strokes instead, her hair falling down her shoulders in bold waves. There is a copy of a book opened in her hands as she leans against a bookshelf.

The bookstore.

The sketchpad shakes in her hand as her fingers continue to glide through every page of the sketchpad which somehow, are never empty, filled with meticulous sketches.

At the end, she discovers that there are about forty pages total in the sketchpad. And every page features the same girl, sketched delicately with graphite.

Her.

He has been drawing her every day.