The Quiet Girl

At the tender age of eighteen, I was naive enough to believe that I was over having crushes on girls. I figured I was a grown man, going off to college. I'd be meeting girls at parties and in the dorms! No more silly puppy love from afar.

Well, it didn't take fate long to make a fool of me. I saw her in my Freshman English class. The seats for the students were divided into three sections, each having four rows of seats. The largest section, in the center, directly faced the professor. The other two were set at an angle, making a kind of convex shape so everyone could see the front of the room. I sat in the back of the angled section farthest from the door; she sat in the seat that mirrored mine, in the section closest to the door. Throughout the class, whenever I looked at the professor, she was in the corner of my eye.

She was fair-skinned, and her dark brown hair fell just short of her shoulders. She was very pretty, but had a sort of persistently sad look on her face. A few strands of hair covered her left eye most of the time, which was a shame, because her eyes were incredible. They were piercing, ice-blue eyes that often fell on... me.

The first time we made eye contact, I looked away and pretended not to notice. After all, I was in her field of vision, just like she was in mine. But the class met three times each week, and by the end of the second week, she had started to flat-out stare at me. She did it through the entire class. It was flattering, but creepy.

At this point, I wasn't sure what to do. I couldn't change seats: the professor had us fill out a seating chart the first day, and we were strictly forbidden to change seats. So I did the only thing I could think of, and smiled at her.

She smiled back. I felt equal parts confusion and elation. What was she up to? The obvious thing to do would have been to catch up with her after class and say hi, but I was too shy. What if I was making a mountain out of a molehill? She might not be interested. Maybe this was just something college girls did.

So another week passed, and I grew steadily fascinated and infatuated. This mysterious beauty, who only seemed to brighten up when I smiled at her, entranced me more and more. I thought about approaching her, but I was hesitant; and since she sat closest to the door and I sat farthest away, she slipped out into the crowded hallway before I could muster up the nerve to introduce myself.

That weekend, my interest bordered on obsession. She dominated my every waking thought, haunted my dreams. Why was she staring at me? Why doesn't she ever raise her hand in class? Why doesn't the professor ever call on her? Why can't I just man up and say hello to her? A dust-storm of questions kicked up in my mind, and as I lay awake Sunday night, my fervent brain preventing sleep, I vowed I would introduce myself to her on Monday.

Somehow, exhaustion overcame my burning thoughts, and I managed a couple of hours of restless sleep. Yet as my alarm went off, I felt surprisingly refreshed and alert. Today was the day. I would finally reach out to my mysterious beauty.

I showed up to class a few minutes early, sharply dressed and beaming with excitement. I fidgeted in my seat, waiting to see her; but as the professor began class, her seat remained empty. A minute passed, then five, then ten, each moment stretching out like an agonizing eternity, but she never came.

I was crushed. I was finally prepared to chat her up, maybe ask her out for coffee, and she was nowhere in sight. After the initial shock wore off and I became capable of rational thought, however, I realized how silly I was being. People miss class: they get sick, they sleep in, they forget to do the reading. It was no big deal, I'd just wait until Wednesday.

Yet Wednesday came and went, while she remained absent. On Friday, when she didn't show, I almost broke down. I spent the weekend sulking in isolation, beating myself for having not approached her sooner. I worried that she had dropped out; after all, she did seem kind of gloomy, so maybe she decided this wasn't the place for her. I was miserable.

The next time class met, she again failed to show. I waited for everyone to file out, and approached the professor as he collected his materials. I tried to stop from shaking with nerves, and mostly failed, but I had to know who she was.

"Uh, excuse me, professor, I was wondering... The girl, who sat over there," - I gestured to her seat - "could you maybe tell me her name?"

Quizzically, he raised one eyebrow. "I'm sorry, I don't know who you're talking about," he replied.

I gulped, audibly. "Well, if you could just check the seating chart, I'd really like to know who she was. Er, is." The professor took of his glasses, looked down and rubbed his temples. It only took a moment, but seemed to go on forever. Finally, he looked back up at me and spoke.

"Son, are you feeling okay? There's no name for that seat on the chart. That seat has been empty all semester."