Chapter 11

Yoko

The soft morning light seeped through the curtains, gently coaxing me awake. I lay there, cocooned in warmth, unwilling to face the day just yet.

My hand lazily reached for my phone, fingers brushing over the screen as I unlocked it, hoping—no, praying—to see a reply from Faye.

But there it was. The same message status. Read. No response.

A dull buzz settled in my chest.

Something felt wrong, like a quiet storm brewing beneath the surface. Did I say too much? Was I imagining things? I sighed, trying to push away the unease, but it clung stubbornly.

Shaking it off, I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The cool floor jolted me into motion, forcing me to leave the swirling thoughts behind. I needed to get ready for school.

Dragging myself to the wardrobe, I pulled out my go-to comfort outfit—an oversized beige sweater that hung loosely around me, soft and familiar. I paired it with white shorts, rolling the cuffs slightly for that casual touch.

I glanced at my reflection. My long, dark hair fell naturally over one shoulder, slightly tousled but presentable enough. I stared at myself for a moment, trying to read the thoughts in my own eyes.

Moving swiftly around the kitchen, I grabbed my morning coffee, refilled Ham's food and water, and made sure he got his fair share of pats and affection. His little tail wagged in approval, a brief moment of warmth before I headed out. Moments later, I was in my car, the hum of the engine filling the quiet void as I drove to school.

"Morning, Yoko!" Ink's cheerful voice rang out from behind as I rummaged through my locker for my chemistry textbook.

"Morning, Ink," I replied with a small smile, still sifting through my books.

She leaned in to help, her curiosity evident. "So, we were thinking—how about a night out at the bar on Friday? A fun time to unwind. What do you think?"

"Sure," I nodded, closing the locker door. "Sounds fun. I can't wait."

Her eyes sparkled with mischief, a knowing grin playing on her lips. "By the way, any updates on that person you met on Sunday? Spill the details."

"I, uh..." The words caught in my throat. "It was... normal."

She raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying my underwhelming response. "Just normal? Nothing else? Come on, Yoko."

I let out a quiet sigh, my mind drifting back to yesterday—especially that kiss. The memory sent a shiver down my spine, lingering in a way that was anything but normal.

I remember how Becky laughed at almost everything I said; she carried such a positive energy that it was impossible not to catch at least a little of it. There was an ease between us, a natural connection—I liked that. Maybe it was because we were both students, able to relate to each other's experiences and struggles.

"Yoko," she said, her tone shifting suddenly, a seriousness settling in.

"Yes, Becky?" I responded, a slight smile on my face.

She drew in a deep breath, as though preparing to unveil a well-kept secret.

"I like you, Yoko." Her eyes glimmered, sweet and sincere.

For a moment, I stood there, her words hanging in the air as I tried to process them. My lips parted, searching for the right response, the honest one. "Becky, I really like our relationship as it is now... Being with you feels like having another close friend."

It was my truth. I didn't harbour any romantic feelings for her, and I knew she deserved that honesty.

Her face fell slightly, the glint in her eyes dimming. "I hope we can still remain friends. I really value this connection we have—I feel like we clicked so easily."

"I understand, Yoko." Her voice was soft, cutting me off gently. Then she added, almost hesitantly, "Can... I give you a light peck on the cheek?"

I hesitated for a brief second, my eyes dropping. It's just a friendly gesture, I reasoned. "Sure," I replied calmly.

As she moved closer, I caught the faint scent of her vanilla perfume. Her eyes closed as her lips softly touched my left cheek, a delicate, fleeting moment. She straightened back, and we stood there, staring at each other, both processing the unspoken weight of that simple kiss.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of movement—a tall figure hastily turning the corner. My heart skipped a beat. That silhouette... it felt familiar. Was that Faye? Did she see what just happened? I quickly pushed the thought aside, forcing a soft chuckle to break the silence.

"Well, that was..."

"Awkward," Becky finished, laughing lightly, though a hint of worry lingered in her voice. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

"Hey, no sweat. We're still friends, right?" I smiled, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"Yes, definitely. Even if you can't be my girlfriend, I'll still be here for you—your closest friend if you ever need someone to confide in." Her radiant smile returned, lighting up her face.

I nodded. "You're right. I'm always just a text away too, Becky."

As we went our separate ways, my thoughts circled back to that fleeting figure. Was it really Faye? Did she see? The question lingered, an unanswered whisper in the back of my mind.

Snapping back to reality, I quickly locked my locker and shrugged at Ink. "We just had coffee. She confessed to me."

"Oh my god, Yoko." Her eyes widened, hands flying to her mouth as she squealed with excitement. "What happened next? Did you say yes?"

Standing outside the door of our first class that Monday morning—English Lit—I shook my head, my expression softening into a quiet denial. "Nope."

My gaze drifted forward, staring at the door as though I could see through it, my thoughts fixated on the person waiting behind it. "I rejected her... I like someone else." My voice trailed off, almost a whisper.

Ink's eyes grew even wider, her voice laced with shock and curiosity. "Goodness me, Yoko! Who is it?"

I turned to her, a playful glint in my eyes, sticking out my tongue. "Not telling you."

Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and walked into the classroom, leaving her trailing behind me, still buzzing with curiosity.

As I stepped inside, my eyes instinctively found Faye as she stood at the front of the classroom, exuding an effortless elegance that was impossible to ignore.

She wore an oversized black shirt that draped loosely over her frame, the soft fabric cascading past her waist, accentuating her slender figure without even trying. Paired with dark trousers, the monochrome ensemble gave her an aura of understated sophistication. Her long, brown hair fell in soft waves, framing her face perfectly, while a pair of thin, round glasses perched delicately on her nose, adding a touch of intellectual allure.

A silver chain rested just above the collar of her shirt, catching the light subtly with every movement. She radiated confidence, her presence commanding attention without a single word.

There was something about the way she carried herself—an unspoken magnetism—that made my heart flutter every time I looked at her.

I quickly averted my gaze, slipping into my seat just as Ink slid in beside me, her curiosity still brimming as she continued her relentless attempts to pry the secret from my lips.

Yet, I couldn't shake off the unsettling aura that seemed to linger in the air.

It was something about Faye—an unspoken, distant chill that surrounded her, pushing others away. It wasn't hostile, but there was no warmth either, just an invisible barrier I couldn't quite explain.

I tried to brush those thoughts aside as Ink nudged me again, her persistence unwavering.

The lesson soon began, the quiet classroom filling with Faye's voice—a low, steady monotone that carried an almost indescribable gravity.

"Let's discuss a new poem today," she announced, turning to write on the board. My eyes instinctively followed her graceful movements before shifting to the words appearing—One Art.

My heart skipped a beat. She's teaching my favourite poem.

Faye began reciting the lines, her voice imbued with a rich, almost haunting depth.

Each word seemed to spring to life, as though Elizabeth Bishop herself were speaking through her. I'd read this poem countless times, whispered it to myself, yet hearing it now, in her voice, made it feel profoundly different—almost like discovering it anew.

"So, can someone tell me what the poet is conveying here?" she asked, placing the book gently on her desk.

Hands shot up immediately, eager students vying for her attention, each hoping to share their interpretation. Her gaze swept over the room, pausing on mine.

"Yoko," she called, and my heart stuttered.

Wait, I didn't even raise my hand...

I cleared my throat, meeting her eyes as I steadied my voice. "The poem is about loss and acceptance, with those two themes intertwined at its core."

She nodded, encouraging me to continue. I drew in a breath, gathering my thoughts.

"It starts with a seemingly casual statement—'the art of losing isn't hard to master.' Bishop suggests that small losses, like misplacing keys or missing appointments, are mundane, almost trivial experiences that we can easily brush off."

The classroom grew silent, everyone's attention fixed on me. Faye's slight nod urged me onward.

"But as the poem progresses, the losses become more profound—places, memories, and ultimately, loved ones. Bishop tries to convince herself that these greater losses are just as manageable, but the growing emotional weight betrays the real struggle beneath. She's grappling with the enormity of true loss."

I paused, the silence in the room deepening as my words sank in. Faye's eyes remained steady on me, a flicker of approval dancing in them.

"The repeated line, 'the art of losing isn't hard to master,' becomes almost ironic. By the final stanza, Bishop reveals that losing someone she loves is devastating. There's a palpable hesitation in that last line—'though it may look like (write it!) like disaster.' It's as though she can't even bring herself to fully admit it, emphasising her reluctance and the raw pain hidden between the lines."

I finished, an awkward smile tugging at my lips, the room still wrapped in silence. Then, a wave of silent approval washed over me, and Faye's expression softened.

"Good work, Yoko," she said, her voice drawing everyone's focus back to her. "Now, what I want to discuss today is how one copes with loss."

She turned back to the whiteboard, her movements deliberate, and wrote a question that seemed to hang in the air like a whispered confession: "Why does one person find it hard to cope with losses? And why can Elizabeth Bishop write about it so clearly, almost as if she's moved on, yet in reality, she's still struggling?"

The room fell into a heavy silence, each of us waiting, almost holding our breath, for her answer.

"Simply put," she began, her voice carrying a weight that made the words sink deep, "We humans are emotional creatures. We grapple with our internal battles while facing the harsh realities outside of us. One Art captures this struggle in one line: even a writer, armed with the safety of paper and ink, hesitates to confront their rawest feelings. So imagine trying to say those words aloud. To admit them to the world."

Her words sliced through the quiet, each syllable leaving an unspoken ache hanging between us.

"We can use logic to reason with ourselves over trivial losses. We can convince ourselves that keys or appointments don't matter. But when it comes to what truly shakes us—what's lost, remains lost. What's hurtful stays hurtful. In the poem, the speaker keeps repeating that loss can be mastered, almost like a mantra, trying to believe it herself. Yet in the final lines, that mask slips. The vulnerability surfaces. She admits, quietly but powerfully, that some losses feel like a disaster. That parenthetical 'write it!'—it's her breaking point. She can barely bring herself to put it on paper."

Her eyes flickered to mine, and for a moment, I felt like I was seeing past her words. There was something there, an unspoken truth behind her gaze.

Is she talking about herself? The thought lodged itself in my chest, heavy and unrelenting.

"In essence," she continued, her voice softening yet gaining intensity, "this poem reflects a loss of control. The villanelle structure itself is an attempt to impose order on chaos, with its repetitive refrains. Yet that one small, desperate parenthetical command disrupts the rhythm. It's the moment where the facade cracks, and the raw, unfiltered weight of loss seeps through."

Her words seemed to wrap around me, pulling me into the depths of the poem. The room felt heavier, her presence more profound. Every explanation, every pause carried a gravity that left me hanging on each word.

"Alright," she said, pulling the class back from the emotional edge she'd led us to, "let's begin today's assignment." She moved gracefully between rows, placing the assignment sheets on our desks.

I stared down at the paper, my mind flooded with fragments of thoughts and emotions, each begging to be written. But I resisted the urge to rush. I let the ideas simmer, just like she had taught me last week. Her voice echoed in my mind, guiding my thoughts with an intimacy that felt almost like a secret shared.

Ink leaned over, her voice barely above a whisper, "Oh, you've barely started." Her eyes flicked across my blank paper, a hint of surprise in her tone. She was used to seeing me deep in my writing by now, pages already filling with neatly penned thoughts.

I offered a small, fleeting smile, my gaze fixed on the paper before me. "I'm writing it well," I murmured, more to myself than to her, the words carrying a quiet resolve.

The minutes ticked by, each one stretching into an eternity. Then, the bell rang—a sharp reminder of reality pulling us back from the quiet refuge of our thoughts. The room erupted into a flurry of movement as students hurried to pack up and leave. Chairs scraped against the floor, laughter and footsteps echoed, but I stayed rooted in my seat, moving deliberately slow as I gathered my things.

I watched, heart pounding quietly beneath my calm exterior, as one by one, the room emptied. Each departing classmate felt like a door closing, the noise fading into a distant hum. I pretended to adjust my papers, to organise my pens, buying time with every small, deliberate motion.

Finally, the last student walked out, the door clicking shut behind them. The room was empty now—empty, except for her.

I stood, every step towards her desk measured and deliberate, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. The soft rustle of my movements seemed magnified, each sound echoing in the stillness as I approached, my breath shallow, my pulse quickening with a tension that neither of us had yet named.

"Faye?" I called her name softly, each syllable hanging heavy in the quiet room.

She looked up, her eyes meeting mine, distant and guarded. There was a coldness there—an unspoken weight pressing down on her. Something had been off since the morning, but she offered no explanation, no hint of what lay beneath that composed exterior.

"I..." My voice faltered, my words catching in my throat. I steadied myself and tried again. "I just wanted to know your thoughts on the poem I sent you last night."

For a brief moment, something flickered across her face—a subtle crack in the mask. Her expression fell, as if I had touched a tender, hidden wound.

"It's good." Her reply was clipped, devoid of the usual warmth or enthusiasm. Each word felt like a barrier, a deliberate push away.

The unease settled deeper in my chest. This wasn't like her—not the Faye I knew, the one who would light up at even the smallest of things.

"Are you alright?" I asked, my voice soft with concern. "Is something bothering you?"

Her face softened, her eyes glistening as if on the verge of tears. For a moment, it looked like she might let the façade slip, like she might confide in me. But then she shook her head, the vulnerability gone in an instant.

"I'm alright." Her words were a whisper, a fragile lie that I wanted to unravel.

"Are you sure?" I pressed gently, hoping she would let me in.

For a heartbeat, she hesitated, her lips parting as though she might finally share what weighed on her. But then she closed them tightly, sealing away whatever it was she couldn't bring herself to say. "Yeah, just... some personal stuff."

I nodded, sensing the invisible wall she was building between us. "Alright then. I'll still see you this Friday for extra lessons, right?" I tilted my head, a small, hopeful gesture. I didn't want to lose this connection, even if I didn't fully understand what was slipping away.

"Let's do a rain check," she murmured, her attention already drifting back to the papers in front of her. "I might have other appointments."

I swallowed the knot forming in my throat. There was nothing more to say, nothing she would let me reach. "Okay," I replied, the word barely audible.

I lingered for a moment longer, watching her, the worry gnawing at the edges of my mind. Then, with a heavy heart, I turned and walked away, the silence trailing behind me like a shadow as I headed to my next lesson.

At lunch, I could barely touch my food. My mind was tangled up with thoughts of Faye—her distant eyes, the careful way she chose her words, the emotions she tried so desperately to conceal. Every detail gnawed at me, but I knew I couldn't push her. I wasn't sure I had the right to.

"Earth to Yoko... hello?" Marissa's voice broke through the fog, her hand waving in front of my face.

I blinked, pulling myself back into the present, back to the bustling cafeteria. "Sorry," I mumbled, offering a small, apologetic smile.

"What were you thinking about?" she asked, drawing the attention of the others at the table.

I shook my head lightly, staring down at my tray, pushing the food around with my chopsticks. "Nothing. Just... lost in thought. What were we talking about?" I forced my voice to sound light, as if everything was normal.

Ink jumped in, her eyes sparkling. "Big was telling us about his first date with Shawn."

My gaze shifted to Big, and for a moment, I let the conversation pull me out of my own thoughts. "Oh? How was it?" I asked, a smile finding its way to my lips, genuine despite the weight I carried.

Big's cheeks flushed as he recounted the details. "It was... good. Really good. We went to the park and had a little picnic..." His voice trailed off, the memory painting his face with a soft, rosy glow.

"And then... we kissed," he admitted, his eyes flickering with a mix of shyness and excitement.

A chorus of squeals erupted around the table. We smacked each other's shoulders playfully, as if we were characters in a feel-good movie, swept up in the romance of the moment.

"Oh my, you're bold, huh?" Marissa teased, grinning widely.

Ink leaned in, eyes glinting with mischief. "So... does this mean you two are a thing now?"

Big shrugged, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yeah... we're dating."

"Awwww!" Marissa cooed, her face alight with joy. "That's the sweetest thing ever."

"That's wonderful, Big. I'm happy for you." I meant it, offering him a sincere smile. "May you both cherish this moment."

He beamed at me. "Thank you, Yoko. That really means a lot."

The rest of the lunch break was filled with light-hearted chatter and laughter, the warmth of friendship wrapping around us. But even as the conversation carried on and the school day blurred into the afternoon, a shadow lingered in my mind.

Faye.

Her distant eyes. The unspoken words.

Something was wrong. I could feel it. And I couldn't shake the worry settling deep in my chest.

Just as I was about to drive out of the school parking lot, my phone buzzed in my hand.

I glanced at the screen and saw Ms. Jane's name. She never called me on weekdays, so I instantly knew something was up. It could only mean one thing—she needed me at the coffee shop.

"Hello, Ms. Jane?" I answered, curiosity creeping into my voice.

Her voice was strained, urgent—something I wasn't used to hearing from her. "Sorry, Yoko, I know you have school, but I was wondering if you could come help out at the coffee shop tonight?"

"Tonight?" I blinked, trying to process her request. If she meant tonight, that meant I'd be working the bar.

"Yes," she sighed, as if frustrated by the situation. "Jerry says one of his staff can't make it, and we're short-handed. If you could come by and help, it'd be a real lifesaver."

I hesitated for a moment, considering my schedule, but in the end, I agreed.

"Alright, I'll come by."

"You're a star. Just come by at 6 p.m., help out for an hour or two, and we should be fine."

"Got it. See you tonight, Ms. Jane."

I hung up and tossed my phone onto the passenger seat, my mind already jumping ahead to the evening shift. I turned the key in the ignition and drove back home, the weight of the day still hanging on me, but now with a new task on my shoulders.