Noah's pov 

         It's been a week since I was saved by that beautiful lady by the bridge.

           Since then, I had been hanging around the bridge during my free time waiting for her to pass by. I want to thank her for what she did that day, now that I have known how to escape from the bullies.      

    Today seems like any other day, she isn't gonna show up. I'll come back tomorrow and the day after until I get to talk to her, my mother didn't raise me to be rude.  

        She had been on my mind since I saw her. How I wish that I could see her, the details of her in my mind are blurring by day.  

         Soon I'll only have a warm feeling of gratitude left in my heart.     

      I know my worth, I'm not worth half of her, so I don't spend my sleepless nights thinking about her. She rules my mind during the day.   

       Instead, I have got to focus my curious mind on the buggy girl from computer science class while hitting the gym to try being fit for that day when the pretty lady will not be around to save me. I do take some taekwondo lessons as well.   

        I'm trying. 

         We have attended four classes together. If by fate or not, we still end up sitting in the same spot we sat during our first class.     

      I do help my fate though, I make sure I'm at the venue ten minutes early. She comes in on time, but I make sure the seat next to me is empty.    

      We are friends, even though I don't know her name yet, and she isn't aware.   

       I have observed.

          Her face is a mystery by itself; from large dark eyes, bushy darker eyebrows, long eyelashes, right proportioned nose, huge glasses, inexistent cheekbone, smooth skin, and unreadable expression.  

        She likes covering her thick straight hair. It's straight and always pulled up into a ponytail. She's a brunette.     

     She has perfect palms, adequately small with average fingers and white trimmed fingernails. Her delicate fingers hold that office pen so immaculately that I just wanna be it like she does it on purpose.   

       No muscle in her moves involuntarily, from her beautiful fingers to her cute nose, to her ears, to that detailed face. She's just a piece of art by herself.  

        I have been staring, she knows, which she doesn't care at all. Lately, to her notes rather than her face, I have been copying her notes.   

       This is the only class in which we don't have PDF notes, Mr Brown isn't that audible. We, at the back, rely on the templates displayed on the screen.    

      She lets me copy her notes and curiously studies her face for minutes during the class.  

         At times we lock eyes, I try reading her face to understand her but I fail terribly. She isn't cold, her expression is calm, as if meditating. 

          She looks ahead when it gets weird, which it hardly does.    

      That's how I know that her eyes are warm at times, as if holding in tears, reflecting the light coming through the window.    

       Her eyebrows are as intact as those seconds we gaze at each other.   

       I have seen her slender neck, never her collarbone. 

         From there down she's always into buggy outfits and sneakers. 

          Today it's Balenciaga, then Saint Laurent and Gucci the next day. I haven't seen her in one brand twice so far, brands I don't have a single shoe on my shoe rack, only some Nikes.   

       Although oversize, her clothes give out high-end vibes, and very much highlight her.   

        I think about many things looking at those baggy sweatpants and t-shirts. 

         I wonder what her collarbone looks like. How many pairs of shoes does she own, from which brands? Does she have a waist? Is it slim or thick?   

        I'm a perv, I can't watch ninety-seven percent of her body mulched without questioning what the reason behind it was.

          Is she chubby and insecure about her body weight? I know she has breasts, what size?    

       She masks her curvature so well. I wonder about the dimensions of her curves because I can catch a glimpse of them when she's walking in and out after classes. As if that isn't enough, I have made it my business to figure out what she's thinking. What does she think of me, a pervert that I am or what?  

        What goes on behind those drowning eyes when they stare inside me? Does she think of anything, or is her mind hollow as a black hole?  

         It's true, she is the one occupying my bright nights and dark days. She is the bed I sleep in, the classes I attend, the food I eat, the clothes I wear, the water I shower with, and the distance I walk… she's always on my mind.  

         She's the life I'm living, a box I can't figure out how to open. 

I call her Raven.