Chapter 10
994words
Two pages had been torn from the calendar, with the final remaining page as thin as a cicada’s wing.
I sat in our secret hideout, staring blankly at the black notebook. More and more items had been crossed off, while the blank spaces were becoming fewer.
I licked my dry lips, turned to a new page, and solemnly wrote: “Item Six: Have a romance.”
After writing, I pushed the notebook toward Jack.
He was leaning by the window, reading “The Catcher in the Rye” that he had found somewhere. He glanced down at my notebook, then looked up with a hint of amusement in his eyes that I couldn’t quite interpret.
“With whom?” he asked.
“With you,” I blurted out, my heart pounding in my chest like a complex drum rhythm. “Consider it… extra compensation for completing the tasks. You’ll act out this play with me.”
He closed his book and looked at me. The warehouse was very quiet, with only dust particles dancing slowly in the sunbeams that streamed through the holes in the roof.
“Alright,” he said, with a slight curve at the corner of his mouth. “What shall we perform? ‘Romeo and Juliet’? I’m afraid we don’t have enough time to die twice.”
Our first “play” was going to see a movie.
The only movie theater in town was showing “The Sixth Sense.” On the poster, Bruce Willis wore a serious expression, while the little boy beside him had eyes full of terror.
“Are you sure you want to watch this?” Jack asked me at the ticket window.
“What else?” I asked in return. “Watch ‘American Pie’? I’m afraid we’d get beaten up by both my parents.”
He laughed, bought two tickets, and a large bucket of popcorn.
The theater was dark and cold, with the air conditioning blasting as if electricity were free. I hugged the warm bucket of popcorn, feeling like I was holding a hot water bottle in an ice cellar.
When the little boy in the movie whispered that famous line to the psychologist, “I see dead people,” I almost dropped the popcorn in my hands.
I instinctively turned to look at Jack.
In the darkness, I couldn’t see his expression clearly, only the contour of his profile outlined by the light from the screen, his jawline tense. He watched with unusual concentration.
I suddenly didn’t dare to keep looking at him, turning my gaze back to the screen. But my senses, uncontrollably, all focused on him.
That clean, sun-dried soap scent from him. The sensation of his shirt fabric, warm with his body heat, when our arms occasionally touched. The brief yet burning contact when his fingers accidentally touched mine as he ate popcorn.
My heartbeat made me more out of control than any thrilling scene in the movie.
At the end of the film, when the shocking twist was revealed, the entire theater was filled with gasps. Yet I seemed to have known the answer all along.
I just looked at the lonely soul on the screen, thinking about the equally lonely boy from the future beside me.
As the movie ended, we walked on the streets as the lights were just coming on. No one spoke, but the atmosphere no longer felt like we were acting.
He walked on my left, naturally keeping me on the side away from the road. Our shadows stretched long by the streetlights, intertwining on the ground, indistinguishable from each other.
The feeling was subtle, as if we really were a young couple who had just watched a movie together.
“So,” I finally spoke, breaking the silence, “do you believe that when people die, their souls remain behind?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He stopped walking and looked up at a bright star in the sky.
“I believe so,” he said softly, his voice somewhat wavering in the evening breeze. “Some people and things don’t disappear easily.”
Our second “date” was in the park.
I used to think that rowing a boat on a park lake was the kind of old-fashioned romance you’d see printed on postcards.
But when Jack and I sat in that wobbling little boat, I realized that old-fashioned things endure because they truly bring joy.
I paddled clumsily, causing the boat to spin in circles. Jack didn’t laugh at me; he simply took the oar from my hand, gave it a gentle push, and the boat glided steadily forward.
Sunlight poured onto the lake, creating a dazzling sparkle on the rippling water that made it difficult to keep my eyes open. I shielded my forehead with my hand as I looked at him. He wore a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong forearms. His hair was slightly tousled by the wind, and his face carried a relaxed smile.
In that moment, I truly wished time could stand still.
After leaving the park, we went to a café on the street corner.
Jazz music played in the store, while the air was filled with the rich aroma of coffee and toasted bread.
We sat facing each other, discussing our dreams. This topic felt somewhat luxurious, especially for me.
“I want to be a teacher,” I said, stirring the cappuccino in my cup. “A history teacher like Mr. Smith.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I thought for a moment and answered very seriously, “I want to help those… students who were like me before. I want to tell those who hide in the corner of the classroom, who feel like they’re invisible, who think they’re unloved freaks, that they’re not. I want them to know that someone can see them.”
Jack paused while stirring his coffee.
That small silver spoon just stayed still in the brown liquid, motionless.
After several seconds, he finally looked up and gave me his usual gentle smile.
“You’ll definitely be a good teacher,” he said.
His voice was steady and certain.
But his eyes weren’t smiling.
