SHE stares at the freckles on sun-kissed skin peeking out from the titanium white of his shirt.

Sitting a mere four, five feet in front of her, Gabriel's back is truly a wonder to look at.

Every morning, Clementine is five minutes late to class. Every morning, she's stuck staring at the back of his beautiful head.

She doesn't get to see his beautiful expressions as he raises his beautiful hand and asks beautiful questions to the teacher.

A surge of longing trickles down her spine.

Clementine is close enough that if she leans forward, just the tiniest bit, she can brush her hand against his soft hair. Maybe without his noticing, even.

She curls her hands into fists to restrain from doing so.

The bell rings.

She's out of her seat even before the first peal of the bell goes off, swinging her bag over her shoulder.

Gabriel stands up at the same time.

He leans down to pick up his own bag, and Clementine forgets how to move. How to breathe.

Usually, she's already gone.

Usually, she's fleeing down the hall to her locker—which she knows is filled with dead flowers from her mocking classmates—and already halfway to her next class. Far, far away from Gabriel.

Today, their eyes meet.

Unreadable, dark coffee eyes.

A flush climbs up her neck and blooms in her cheeks, and Clementine tries for a hesitant smile.

Gabriel tracks the movement wordlessly, and nods. A slight action of acknowledgement.

Is she the only one who feels the electricity crackling in the room?

Clementine blinks, and he's gone.

A fresh ache blossoms over the old scab in her heart, and she miserably pushes her chair back as she leaves.

A sea of faces crowd the hall, and Clementine is all alone.