He secretly made small glances at the edge of the table where his phone rested.
What should I do? he pondered, hands resting on the table.
About to lift his hand, he stopped.
He made small glances, but when he felt the woman's gaze on him, he stiffly turned his neck as though inside were rusted gears refusing to move normally.
In the end, aside from moving his eyes, he didn't do a thing.
Even though he thought he was stealthy enough, the woman caught him right in the middle of his secretive act.
She moved her head back and swiped the strands away.
"Hm? Whaccup?" she asked, her eyes capturing his.
"Huh?"
The boy picked his head back up.
"You were lookin' here like crazy." Her nails caressed the table, leaving tiny scratch marks behind.
Lifting her hands, she pointed at her chest with spread-out fingers.
"They're huge, aren't they? Wanna touch 'em?" Her mouth curled up with a hint of lust in her eyes.
The boy kept gazing into the distance, unsure of how to react.
One second passed. She still had her hands in the air, pointing at herself. Another second passed. Her smile stiffened as the whiteness of her teeth began to disappear behind her red lips.
As more seconds passed, her hands twitched.
When the weight of her arms got the better of her, she distanced her hands from each other. The smile she once had was almost gone, only pulled up a little by her muscles at the corners of her mouth.
Both of them sat in the quietness.
The boy didn't have a bone in his body that moved. While she mirrored his state second by second, the more she failed at making him participate.
When more than ten seconds passed, she put her arms back on the table.
She sighed.
"You're no fun. A beauty's sittin' in front of you, and you don't even touch her boobs? How disappointin'." She curled her lips down.
She stayed silent.
Her palms rested on the table, nails scratching the top layer of the white paint.
She inhaled; her breath sufficed before meeting her lungs, then exhaled, pushing out the little air that was still there. One of her hands moved, her nails peeling off the paint until only her fingers and her palm pressed against the hard material. Seconds later, her other hand followed. Tendons in her wrist tightened. Her hand stiffened, forming a fist as her fingers slowly drew back. Her nails dug into her soft skin at the base of her thumb.
"You're a boy!" she shouted. Voice raw. "You should be excited seeing a woman's breasts…"
She sniffed.
"E…Even if just the clothes… the softness, th-the rounded shape… they, they all here!"
Her tone was no longer playful. The teasing had completely vanished, replaced by something more real.
"Why…why do you look at me with that indifferent pair of eyes?" Her eyes glistened. "Am I not enough for you? If-if the woman who's showing her chest is me… that's not enough for you…?"
The boy didn't say anything, only focusing on the state he was in.
He watched her from the corner of his vision, as if he were just watching a scene from a play. There was no room for him to be a part of that story, only a spectator unbothered by what happens on the stage.
He couldn't understand.
Why did the woman in front of him just break down? Why did she have that unreasonable reaction to saying any of that? Why did it have to be him who experienced all of that?
He couldn't understand.
Though, the stage play started way before he got there, so no wonder he didn't get what was happening.
He could only repeat the words in his head: I don't want to get involved. I don't want to get involved. I don't want to get involved. I don't want to get involved. I don't want to…
As much as he didn't want to get called to that stage, he had to suppress that desire and walk up the stairs until he was under the spotlight. Even though there was no audience, he felt as though he had entered the stage of a fully booked arena.
Every move was monitored. Every decision was evaluated.
If he breathed the wrong way, if he couldn't say the right words, they judged him.
No matter what he did, it was wrong.
His breath, frozen. Skin cold, yet blazing. Fingers unmoving, yet trembling as his insides boiled.
Every attempt to open his mouth failed when he felt the aching pain in his chest.
They were watching him.
He didn't understand the script. He never learned that language.
With the papers in his hand, he squeezed them until he could no longer.
His head low, papers encapsulating his vision.
A drop of sweat landed on the script.
The white color faded. Half of it became transparent.
Through the paper, he saw faceless faces. Their silhouettes blurred as the wet paper covered them.
He swallowed, his heartbeat audible in his ears.
Taking a long breath, he put his hand to his chest.
Dead silence filled the air. Sound of veins circulating in his body.
In the middle of the stage, he stood. Frozen.
Inhaling, he felt his heart catch his breath.
He held the air until he had to let it out.
A loud voice broke the silence.
"Why don't you say anything!?" someone from the crowd shouted.
"Don't just stand there! Do something!"
Others joined, screaming at him until their voices became sore.
"She did everything for you, and now that it's your turn, you're running away!? How heartless someone can be!?"
Voices gathered. More and more rang in the boy's ears.
Among the cacophony of noise, a lone voice could be heard.
"It should've been someone else, not you, who stood by her side."
He had a distinct tone, not like the faceless crowd.
He had a face, nothing like the crowd that blurred together as one.
Unlike the rest, it didn't scream.
That voice was the quietest, yet louder than any.
It kept lingering. Echoing. Everything he could hear was that.
The rest of the noise had faded into the background. His voice, though, never did.
The boy was there on the stage, alone, only the audience before him.
He could hardly stand. Knees weak, about to give in.
Legs twitched.
His hand moved to stop it, all to no avail.
They won.
He closed his eyes, waiting.
Waiting until the end calls and pulls him into the abyss.
But then, something grabbed him from behind.