Your Story: Mystery Poker
There's a girl with long black hair that I've seen in passing every semester since I've started, but every time I go up to approach her, she seems to just slip through my fingers. I don't know how to get in touch with her, and it's killing me inside.
At the turn of my head, my silken-haired girl disappears.
You’d imagine that your first year of uni would be pretty uneventful. Sure, you’d get lost a few times trying to navigate through a maze, but sooner or later, you’d figure out which lectures to skip, and learn how to bullshit your way through assessments the same way you did back in high school. Maybe you’d be lucky and find a few people who liked you enough to raise a glass with (or grab lunch with, if you’re not that much of a drinker) more than once, or go to events for societies that you haven’t forgotten you joined by the end of semester. Either way, you stop sweating over the small stuff when all of it is over, and you find out that you still have no clue what to do next.
First-year me had everything figured out. Until there she was, long black hair dancing in the wind.
Now, I can’t remember the last time I haven’t seen her around campus.
It’d be easier if I had a name to work with. At least then I could hit up her Facebook profile (that is, if she even has one) and hope I don’t come across as too much of a creep. Then again, I’m already sneaking around the halls looking for a way to reach her - I'm half-way there.
Now that I think about it, she probably hates me. I mean, with how I’ve gone about... whatever this is, she obviously would, right? Or maybe I’m just looking too much into it.
I suppose it’s my fault. All I know about her is that she’s been here since the beginning, maybe even longer than me. Is she even a student here? Heck if I know, I could’ve actually talked to her, but no. I spent way too long staring at her shiny tresses that I missed the one time she had to talk to me, because the words wouldn’t come out of my stupid mouth.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure she definitely hates me.
You dropped this.
Whipping back, I catch half a head of jet-black going around the bend. I run. Scratch that, I fly. All the while tripping over my feet in the process.
And my mystery girl, for some reason, turns back for once.
“You alright there?” Her voice chimes, probably confused as heck. I take her hand and she pulls me up. They’re soft, slightly rough around the edges, and I just hope that my sweaty palms aren’t bothering her too much.
“I just wanted to-“ I stumble, searching for the right words. It feels strange to finally have a face to put with the black hair, and I can’t tell if I’m happy or not.
Meanwhile, mystery girl blinks, looking to the sides as she shuffles her feet. The idea of transferring schools gets more appealing by the second.
“What was your name?” I finally get out, and I want to slap myself in the face.
After what seems like hours, she answers.
“Oh. My name? It’s–“
Her phone rings. She answers it, flinches, and hangs up in record time. She apologises, hastily of course, and rushes through the crowd without another word.
At this point, I can’t help but wonder if we were even supposed to meet.
But knowing I’ve gotten this far, the dopey smile won’t wipe off my face.
Next time, for sure, I tell my hopeless self.
Nadya Labiba is a first-year Journalism/International Studies student. While her future remains one giant question mark, she can typically be found expanding a never-ending fictional universe, drawing fanart, and making origami and other miscellaneous arts and crafts.
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