Thrawn Prequel

It was a Sunday, and Sundays always held in it a certain kind of enchantment nobody could deny. He waved at her, as he found cardigan girl up and clasping a paper cup of coffee in her hands, as she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of a reflective platinum-colored hardcover novel in a specialty bookstore not so far away.

She waves back and watches his eyes with open pleasure.

It was her first time seeing him, well, not where she expects to see him — in fact, her first time seeing him again after a while. She used to see him everyday, although not really — technically, just four days a week but that’s a lot already. For a year now, it was since a month ago that he spoke more than five words to her, directly to her and no one else standing in between.

A familiar mix of confusion lingered within her. Should I say something? What do I say? She isn’t well-versed with small talk, most especially with a guy she particularly liked. She was after all, never comfortable breaking into his space, as she was reluctant letting him in hers. But she’ve always felt threatened in the awkward silences creeping in between them — destroying the little bubble she has created for them.

For a moment, he looked as if he regretted greeting her up in the first place, though she couldn’t be more sure but was willing to accept it as such. So she smiles and reverts back to bickering droids, whizzing blaster bolts and furious lightsaber battles.

There is still that enormous amount of surface tension around his own bubble that she have not the force to overcome, which was a shame, the intergalactic space knew it was. For in a parallel universe, she would have stood from the hardwood floor, ran towards the aisle from where this beautiful boy remained upright — she would have finally apologized for her all-time indifference and brushing off. He would have told her that there was nothing to worry about, call it even terms maybe, to make-up for his old school mischief. She would have told him how much she loved that song, and sung shamelessly along with the chorus of what was playing in the background, and he would have laughed — maybe regret letting her sing a little bit, but he would have loved it. He would have reached out for her hand, and she would hold back. He wouldn’t let it go even as he browsed through the latest titles of overpriced book-length comics and she would have been glad.

For now, she would have to find comfort in him striding off to sit beside her as they exchanged foolish commentaries on the sci-fi genre, her elbows brushing against his, the electrical rush from that, and the song playing in the background nonetheless, plugging itself to the soundtrack of her night.

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