There’s a girl I always see in our local bookstore. She comes in, sits herself down on the fiction aisle, and just reads until the bookstore has to close shop. I don’t know if I should be worried about her: does she not have a life? She spends a lot of time here. And by a lot, I am not exaggerating. I do mean a lot.

Don’t be so quick to judge, though. Doesn’t mean I don’t have a life. I do too!

Okay, so maybe my social life isn’t stellar. But that’s another conversation for another day.

Let’s bring your attention back to this girl.

She doesn’t seem to be the type to have no friends. In fact, she looks the complete opposite. She’s the type of girl you’d see in a Lotte catalog—you know, model-status tall, slouchy but put-together outfits (I am completely aware that it’s an oxymoron, so just deal with it, okay?), and hair that just naturally shines. She has that sophisticated aura about her. Kind of intimidating, if you ask me.

W-what? Of course I wasn’t staring! I was just… um, observing. Yes, that’s the word. And no, I’m not in denial.

Come on, reader, focus here. Yes. Good.

See, the only reason why I’m here so often myself is because my mom always coaxes me to get out of the house more often. Here’s a sample conversation:

Mom: Hon, why are you always at home? Don’t you have plans?
Me: I don’t.
Mom: Are you sure?
Me: Actually, I’m just waiting for you to leave the room so I can sneak out with my friends to smoke pot at the nearest park. You know, where children go on swings and seesaws. We’re going to set a great example.
Mom: Yixing, let’s not.

She’s worried that I’m going to grow old without anyone on my deathbed. Sometimes, I am too. I mean, I have friends. I’m not a loner. But I just like my quiet time more often than other people do. And it comes across as me being cold and aloof and a party pooper. So instead of being a wet blanket to other people, I just grab my stuff and reposition myself in the bookstore. I still get my alone time, but I’m around people. It’s a win-win for me and my mom. Perfect.

I also get to people-watch. It amuses me. On my right sits an elderly dude who’s been here almost as long as I have—he came here two hours ago—reading the newspaper, front to back. I see him here quite a bit too. He actually kind of reminds me of myself. Maybe he also just needs a reason to be out of the house because his mom is worried about his social sanity. Maybe I should be worried that I’m comparable to a seventy-something year-old guy.

Reader, can we please focus on the topic at hand? Gosh, do you have ADD?

What? Are you accusing me of having a short attention span? Fine. No. I don’t wanna argue with you right now.

Anyway, one day, I was people-watching after finishing my Physics homework. (They have some pretty sturdy coffee tables strewn around the bookstore.) I was just casually looking around the bookstore when she walks in. At first, I think she’s just one of those girls who has nowhere else to shop, so they stop by a bookstore to find a cute trinket or whatever it is those girls think. As I told you, it’s the model aura. But no. She makes a beeline for the fiction section, looking for a certain book.

Her index finger skims the spines of the books, touching them delicately as if they all hid something precious. You can’t say I’m not intrigued. I am. There’s something about her thoughtfully choosing a book that keeps my eyes on her. It’s beautiful how she seems to appreciate written works. Because each book does hide a treasure; you know—they’re the same as treasures in that you just need to open the box to see what’s hidden and what could be. Not a lot of teenagers still appreciate that kind of treasure. It’s disappointing.

She’s different. I can tell. And her attraction level just skyrockets when she unceremoniously plops herself down the carpeted floor to start reading. There’s something uninhibited about her action—graceful without effort, unconscious but still aware. It’s beautiful. Okay. I know it’s creepy. I know it’s rude to stare. I know she’ll probably call the police if she knew I was talking about her without her consent. Maybe it’s even an invasion of privacy. I don’t know. But I can’t help it. My eyes are glued to her. I’m hopeless.

All I can think about is that the floor is dirty, and she probably wants to sit somewhere cleaner—like the seat in front me, because it’s vacant, and she’s more than welcome to sit there. You know, because I’m just alone like that, and her company is not unwelcome.

Stop asking me why I don’t tell her so, okay? It’s her freedom to sit wherever she wants, and if it’s the floor she decides she wants to sit on, who am I to tell her otherwise? No, I’m not scared of talking to her. Why would I be?

I think I should just let her read in silence.

How long have I been creeping on her, you ask? Hm. Let’s see. About a month now. I can’t help it when she’s in front of my line of vision, okay? Maybe she should choose another section of the bookstore to situate herself. Not right in front of me. It’s her fault, really.

Fine. I know it’s not her fault she’s attractive, or that she looks like she’s more than just skin deep, or that there’s something strong pulling me to her. It’s me and my awkward self, not knowing what to do with myself. See, this attraction you say I’m feeling, it’s all new to me. As I’ve said, not-so-stellar social life. It’s a weird feeling—like a virus randomly attached itself to you, and now you’re getting all these weird symptoms, and no amount of antibiotics is going to cure it, because it’s not even bacteria. It’s a virus, and you’re just going to have to wait it out until it decides it’s had enough time to play with you. By then, you are all battered and exhausted from the virus playing with you. But first, you start thinking about this person in unreasonable times of the day; then you wonder what her voice would sound like; then you imagine taking her out to dinner; then you keep going to the bookstore not because you want to avoid your mom: you go because you know you’d see her there, sitting on the same aisle every day, reading a book you’d like to read yourself, if only to understand the different expressions that color her face.

Then you start talking to a reader who’s getting increasingly annoyed that you don’t get up the courage to JUST TALK TO HER. Sorry. Was I talking about you? I was. Not really sorry.

What I’m trying to say is, she’s taking over my whole life. And I just need to vent. So hold on to your seat. I’m not done.

Of course, I’m not dumb. I know that the next reasonable step once I know I’m interested is to actually talk to her. Otherwise, I just become really stalkerish. Which is not what I’m going for. But you don’t understand. Girls can just wait for their prince charming to come, clanking along in his shining armor. Guys, on the other hand, can’t afford that same luxury. And problem is, I’m not exactly in shining armor. I’m not even close to being a prince, or a charming. I’m just lots awkward. So here I am again, sitting on a coffee table, pretending not to watch her as her fingers delicately turn to the next page.

I’m pathetic.

But it’s a new year, and I made a resolution. Well, a list. One of them is to be less awkward. And it seems like being less awkward means less looking and more talking. To her.

What do you think?

I don’t know. How do I even approach her? What if she finds me absolutely creepy?

Maybe I should just go home. I’ll try again tomorrow. No? Damn. You can be demanding, reader.

Okay. Deep, calming breaths. Here I go. Standing up from my seat, walking slowly to the fiction aisle. Oh. Right. My backpack. Can’t forget about that.

Come on. What do I do, reader? Tell me what to do.

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Please comment below. Tell me how you want their interaction to be, and how you think she would react. How does he approach her? It's going to be seriously pathetic if no one comments. then the story will just rot to its death. :'( Lol so please be a dear. :)