Parallel lives. That’s where we started off, and probably the furthest we’ll ever go. In works of fiction and the imaginary worlds constructed purely on pathetic fantasies had me believing that opposites attract, and even in maths, the subject that I rely on the most. But I guess that didn’t apply in our case, unfortunately. 

 

 

I make sure my hair is nicest on weekends, because that’s when I get to see him. It didn’t matter how I only have a few hours with him, at least it was better than nothing, and I have to thank those occasions, because that is how I have met him. Even though we share and exchange no words, it is fine, because I get to sit next to him. And feel his warmth. And breathe the same air.

 

 

We don’t go to the same school, which is quite unfortunate. I only get to see him on Sundays, the day when we are ordered to attend extra classes outside school. And that’s how I met him, through a process I had long dread before, but now, it is the only thing I look forward to in life, in my nearly two decades of existence. 

 

 

I walk to our designated class and turn the knob on the cheap wooden door, only to see him sitting cross legged on the far left side of the nearly empty room. He has his white Apple headphones on blast and his phone in his hand as always, scrolling through something I don’t have the privilege to see. A smile threatens to tug on my lips, but I bite them down because I do not want him to suspect I am doing something out of the ordinary.

 

 

But he does not. He does not acknowledge my entrance and still has his head down, observing the bright screen in his hands. I slide a chair out one seat away from him, the only seat I sit in during this period. He does not lift his head to look my way, as expected. But I feel happy and blissful, because he came to class today. He came, out of the ten weeks we are suppose to attend; he chose this one to be present in. He doesn’t usually come, probably only about half of the time. 

 

 

I am lucky, because I am blessed on this day, to see him present, to have him in the same room. 

 

 

He goes to a better school than I do. His school is the state’s best, and only accepts applicants of the wealthiest, and to top it off, the smartest too. So in conclusion, it was almost impossible to have a spot in that school. But it’s not surprising an individual like him got accepted. He has the money and the brains, and his blessed body is the cherry on top. He is lucky to have a supporting family, and to not have to worry about making ends meet.

 

 

I take out my usual notebook, ready to revise last week’s work so I at least have an idea what we are learning. I don’t want to fall behind. I sense a slight movement from the corner of my eye. The figure a seat away from me pushes himself up from his seat, his bottom sliding back against the char. His head however, does not move and he is again, in the same stationary position. 

 

 

His bag is on the seat in between us, shining under the warm yellow lights. It seems slightly empty and lacking contents. He often does not bring the binders and heavy notepads we are required to bring, I assume it is because he knows all the information the teachers are feeding to us already. And this does make me wonder at times, what was he doing taking up extra classes when he already knows everything? 

 

 

I shake the thought away. I had no right to question his or his parents’ decisions, that wasn’t my business. 

 

 

He never takes notes, he never listens, and never pays the slightest attention. But somehow, against all odds, he still manages to get higher test results than me even considering the fact he rarely shows up to class. I stop questioning his abilities and decide on blaming his school for his intelligence. 

 

 

A few more regulars show up in the next few minutes before class starts. The room is now packed with the familiar faces. They chat to each other and catch up on the week’s incidents while not noticing their unnecessary loud conversation. It bothers my silence, but I don’t say anything. I notice how nobody approaches the boy sitting closest to me. They just continue on with their exchange of phrases, ignoring the obvious fact me and he existed as well. I don’t mind too much about them not asking me questions, but it is quite a surprise nobody strikes a conversation with him.

 

 

I steal a quick glance at him. The rest of the class ignores us two and the awkwardness does not seem to bother them. I see him still on his phone, now texting away, completely oblivious of his surroundings. And through all this, he does not lift his head up from the small three and a half inch screen at all. He seems content with whatever he’s doing on his phone and does not show acknowledgment of anyone else in the room, and they do not return that acknowledgment either, which is understandable, but still does not keep me away from wondering why. 

 

 

He is popular. That’s all I know. I know he has more than two thousand friends on Facebook, which obviously means he’s popular. So I jump to that conclusion because there should be no other reason why he knows so many people. His Facebook wall is usually spammed, that’s another fact I know for sure. And people always want him to tag along to their events, which is not surprising. And the last time I checked, he had every person in this room as his friend, so why were they not talking to him? Or maybe he didn’t want to talk to them. I decide to agree with the latter.

 

 

The teacher makes an entrance in less than a few minutes after the whole class is present. He immediately hands out today’s worksheets and tells us to pass the pile along. I get excited at that. Because it means he had to pass the pile of papers to me, which means he would notice me. That in itself makes my heart skip a beat, just thinking about what he would think when he notices me. When he knows I exist.

 

 

I wait patiently, expectantly. The stack of paper travels its way along the first row of students. I get more expectant as it gets closer to us. The build-up of the familiar feeling is enough to make me dizzy, but I hold on, because this is a once in a lifetime situation. Sweat clams my palms as I hold them in a tightly, thinking it would somehow get rid of the nervousness. I don’t have any ideas of what butterflies in your stomach feel like, but I might have the feeling in there. It’s like the churn of knots, like ropes being tied and twisted inside my stomach, the unevenness and bristly surface of the string scraping against the insides of my abdomen. And for a second, I forget what gravity is. I feel lightheaded and silly. These emotions I have never takennotice of before, or maybe they are stronger now, and I just didn’t want to accept the fact he was making me feel this way. But whatever the reason, I was content, and satisfied. 

 

 

And what I like about him is that, throughout all this commotion, it does not bother him one bit. He's mysterious, and out of the norm.