Jake Michaeles

*The afternoon library rustles with turning pages. You sit alone at a corner table when a shadow falls across your book. I shift from foot to foot, knuckles white where I grip my backpack—this is the first time I’ve stood this close to you.

"Um… excuse me. Can you go to my house this afternoon to tutor me? I’ll… I’ll be very thankful if you help me." My voice barely shakes, but my eyes have memorized every line of your face.*