Chapter 15

Yoko

It's Wednesday, and the hallway's buzzing with that midweek energy—everyone's a little lighter, knowing the weekend is just two days away.

As I walked through, I couldn't help but smile when I saw Marissa and Ink leaning against the lockers at our usual spot.

"Morning!" I greeted them, practically radiating joy.

Ink raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. "Whoa, someone's in a good mood today. What's going on?"

I laughed, shrugging. "Just feeling good today, you know? It's midweek!"

Marissa shot me a skeptical look, clearly not buying it. "Uh-huh. Doesn't sound like it. Are you seeing someone new?"

I felt my cheeks warm a little. "You guys think too much."

Ink jumped in with a grin. "Oh, we know there's only a few reasons why Yoko's all sunshine and rainbows on a Wednesday." She raised her index finger like she was about to teach a class. 

"First, she's meeting her dad after school."

She pointed to her middle finger. "Second, she's in love."

Finally, her ring finger shot up. "And third, she's probably crazy."

Marissa turned to Ink with a mock-serious face. "Well, I'm betting on the second option. That seems most reasonable."

I puffed out my cheeks, trying to hold back my embarrassment. "You two are impossible," I muttered, feeling my face heat up. "I'm going to class now. See you later at lunch."

My first lesson was Maths with Ms Catherine. I settled into my seat and focused on the formulas she scribbled on the board, determined not to miss anything important. I was in full-on student mode, no distractions.

Chemistry came and went in a blur, with periodic table equations that felt suspiciously like more maths. By the time lunch rolled around, my brain was practically fried from all the formulas and theory. I was definitely in need of some downtime.

Big sat next to me at the cafeteria, his lunch in front of him, while Ink and Marissa sat across from us, both of them looking way too amused for my liking.

"So," Big began, with a teasing glint in his eye, "I heard someone's got a secret someone."

I blinked, not quite getting where this was going. "Who?" I asked, genuinely confused.

He nodded towards the girls, who were now grinning like they knew something I didn't.

I quickly waved my hand. "No, no. They're just messing with me."

Big raised an eyebrow and smiled like he was enjoying this a little too much. "Come on, Yoko. It's written all over your face." He took a bite of his food, clearly relishing this.

I sighed, wondering how the heck to explain that, yes, I was with Faye but wasn't quite ready to tell them yet.

"Well, we're not gonna push you to spill right now," Ink said, sensing my discomfort. "But when you're ready, you know we'll be here."

I nodded gratefully. "Yeah, it's complicated. But I promise I'll tell you guys when the time's right."

The rest of lunch passed with us chatting about the weekend plans. The teasing moment faded, but I couldn't shake the warm feeling of knowing that, when the time came, I'd have to tell them the truth. And who knows, maybe soon.

As the bell rang, signaling the start of the next lesson, Ink and I made our way to English Lit with Faye. 

A flutter of excitement mixed with a hint of nervousness bloomed inside me, the memories of yesterday still fresh in my mind.

Walking into the classroom, I could feel the familiar rush of anticipation. Faye was already at her desk, preparing for the lesson, her posture as poised and professional as always. When our eyes met briefly, she offered a subtle smile, a quiet acknowledgment that seemed to hold more meaning than words could convey. I returned the smile before heading to my seat.

Class began as usual, with Faye's calm and firm voice filling the room, commanding our attention.

"Today, we're doing something a little different," she announced, leaning slightly forward, her hands resting on the desk. "Have you ever wondered how poets begin writing their poems?"

There was a brief pause as we all exchanged glances, the silence in the room speaking volumes—we had no idea.

Faye continued, undeterred. "Take, for example, the famous 'roses are red' poem that everyone knows."

She recited it with the same flat delivery she used for all her lessons, but somehow it still carried weight:

"Roses are red, violets are blue,The honey's sweet, and so are you."

Immediately, we all cringed in unison, the room filled with an almost collective shudder, as though we'd just been on the receiving end of a cringe-worthy confession. Even Faye let out a small chuckle, her usual composed demeanor slipping just for a moment.

"Cringey, right?" she asked with a raised eyebrow. "We all know this line, but why? Why is it stuck in the back of our minds?"

She paused for a beat before turning to the whiteboard and writing one word: Rhyme.

"That's because this poem follows a simple, predictable rhyme scheme—AABB. It's easy to read, understand, and recall. Its short lines and simple language make it memorable," she explained, giving us a knowing nod. "But do you know who the original poet is?"

We all shook our heads. While we were familiar with the lines, the poet's name and the full poem remained a mystery.

With a quiet rustle, she picked up her book from the desk and began reading aloud, her voice calm yet rich with emotion. As she spoke, everything around me seemed to fade away, and I was lost in the rhythm of her words.

"The rose is red, the violet's blue,The honey's sweet, and so are you.You are my love and I am yours;I drew you to my Valentine:The lost was cast and then drew,And Fortune said it should be you."

"This poem," Faye continued, "was originally written in the 1590s by Sir Edmund Spenser. It's a simple, pure confession of love."

She paused, taking a breath before adding, "It tells us one important thing—sometimes, when we write about what we feel, we don't need to complicate it with flowery language. Simplicity and sincerity are powerful. A straightforward confession, like this one, can resonate for generations."

With a soft swipe of the eraser, Faye wiped away the words on the whiteboard and replaced them with our assignment for the day.

"For today's activity, I want you to try writing your own poem. It doesn't have to be complicated. You can follow the AABB structure, if you are inspired to use other literary devices, feel free."

As she spoke, her tone remained steady and encouraging, always drawing out the best in us. There was something about her—a quiet strength and an unwavering professionalism—that made even the simplest lesson feel profound.

Her eyes briefly met mine, and a small tug at the corner of her lips made my heart flutter. I knew exactly what I wanted to write—it had been on my mind for some time, but I hadn't found the right moment to put it down on paper.

As the class focused on their assignments, Faye walked between the aisles, observing our progress and offering guidance to the others. My pen danced across the page, words flowing naturally, almost effortlessly, as though they had been waiting to escape.

"In the brief fragments of memory,I stand at the foot of the tower,My eyes taking in the barren garden,And the wonder of your beauty.My heart aches to be closer – closer still,To be with you, lost in your presence.

You turned away many,Thorns and iron gates surrounding you,None dared step within.And so, the once-beautiful gardenWithered, fading in silence.Your face, hidden from the world,Shown only to one worthy.

Yet I find myself returning,Like a prisoner, reporting once more,Just for a fleeting moment,As your radiant warmth melts the biting cold.

The iron gates are gone,The guarded grill vanished,I walk in, bold and resolute,Hoping this is not the end of the dream.Birds chirp, flowers bloom,A radiant light spills from the doorway,And your silhouette shields meFrom the blinding glare.

There you stand, rooted,Smiling brightly, so free,My face glowing in your light.The grandeur of the world fades,As I close the distance between us,Taking your hands in mine,A sweet, passionate kiss—A dream I never dared to hope for,Finally unfolding in this fleeting moment.

I am no longer a prisoner of your beauty, 

But a ruler of your heart.

Yet still, I remain the same, 

Willingly, to be– the prisoner of your love."

Reading it over and over, a deep sense of satisfaction washed over me. It felt as though this poem was more than just a piece of writing—it was a confession between Faye and me, a shared moment that only we could understand.

Suddenly, a soft whisper broke my reverie, her voice low and close to my ear. "How's your poem coming along?"

I hadn't realized she had approached. Her breath, warm and near, made my heart skip a beat.

"It's going well. I'm actually done." I handed her the paper, but she shook her head slightly, refusing to take it.

A glimmer of mischief flickered in her eyes, and a teasing grin tugged at the corners of her lips. "I want you to read it to me later... after school."

My cheeks warmed as I nodded shyly, understanding that this was an invitation—an unspoken promise to spend time together.

Watching her walk away, I couldn't help but feel giddy, admiring the graceful sway of her figure, her presence effortlessly commanding the room. Every step she took exuded a glamour that seemed both extravagant and perfectly poised.

After Faye's lesson, the rest of the day dragged on like a snail, each second seeming to stretch into eternity. I kept glancing at the clock, willing time to move faster. Finally, when the moment I had been waiting for arrived, I wasted no time. I quickly packed my things, a sense of anticipation bubbling inside me as I made my way to the car.

As I approached, I saw her—leaning casually against my car, waiting. A smile spread across my face, and I couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement.

"You're quicker than me," I teased, unlocking the doors and sliding into the driver's seat.

She climbed into the passenger side with a knowing smile. "Yeah, my day technically ends after teaching your class."

"Perks of being a teacher, I guess," I quipped, glancing at her with a smirk. I started the car and pulled away from the school, the familiar rhythm of the drive filling the space between us.

As we drove, the conversation flowed easily, lighthearted and effortless. Her hand found its way to my thigh, resting there comfortably, as if it were always meant to be. It felt right, like the simple, quiet intimacy of two people who were perfectly in sync.

As I pulled into the driveway, both of us stepped out of the car, greeted by Ham's enthusiastic tail wagging through the window. His excitement mirrored the companionship we all seemed to crave.

"Hey, Ham!" I called out warmly, crouching to pat him as Faye closed the door behind me. She took in the familiar surroundings with a thoughtful gaze.

"Your house is beautiful," she remarked, her eyes lingering on the interior details.

I smiled softly, glancing around at the space that held so many memories. "Yeah, my dad designed it with my mum." Walking to the kitchen, I opened the fridge. "What would you like to drink?"

"Just water will do," she replied, her attention drawn to the photos on the wall. "Is that your mum?" she asked, curiosity in her voice.

I joined her, standing side by side as we admired the still frame. "Yeah," I said gently, my voice tinged with affection. "She was my mountain."

Sensing the subtle shift in my emotions, Faye turned to me, her hands cupping my face tenderly. Our eyes met, her gaze soft and inviting. "Tell me more about you and your family," she whispered.

Holding her hand, I led us to the couch. We sank into it together, her arms wrapping around me like a protective cocoon. I nestled into her, the warmth of her embrace both comforting and familiar.

"My mum passed away when I was seven." I paused, fighting the lump in my throat. Her fingers traced soothing circles on my arm, her presence a silent reassurance. I looked up at her and offered a small, brave smile before continuing. 

Resting my head on her chest, I let the words flow. "She was my mountain. She held me like this—close, safe. It made me feel protected, just like I do now..."

I shared the memories that I had carried for so long, each story a gentle tribute to my mum. Faye listened intently, never interrupting. Only the sound of my voice and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat filled the space between us.

"You've been through so much," she murmured, her eyes full of tenderness. "But you don't have to worry now. I'll be your mountain, too."

Her heartfelt promise touched something deep within me. "I'll always be here for you, supporting you, protecting you. You'll never be alone again."

Her words wrapped around my heart like a soft blanket. I lifted my head slightly, meeting her lips in a gentle kiss—warm, sweet, and tender. It felt like a promise sealed in the quiet glow of the afternoon sun.

"Thank you," I whispered, pulling back just enough to see the sincerity in her eyes. "It means the world to me." I smiled, feeling a quiet strength settle within me. "I'll be your mountain, too." It was a promise, one I knew I would keep, just as my mum would have.

The warmth between us lingered, the soft light filtering through the room. Then, Faye's playful voice broke the silence, bringing a spark of lightness. "So, shall we go through your heartfelt love poem? I wonder... is the princess already spoken for?"

Her teasing tone lifted the solemn moment, filling the room with a new warmth. I couldn't help but laugh, knowing that with her, every emotion felt just right.

The afternoon melted into a gentle, golden glow as we spent the hours nestled together, talking about everything and nothing. Our laughter filled the quiet spaces, blending seamlessly with the warmth of shared stories and lingering glances.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a soft orange hue across the room, we found ourselves in the kitchen, preparing dinner together. 

Faye insisted on chopping the vegetables, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she teased me about my less-than-stellar knife skills. I couldn't help but laugh, feeling a lightness I hadn't known in years.

"Careful," I warned, half-joking, watching her playfully wave a carrot at me. "I'd rather not explain to the ER how my girlfriend got injured during a cooking showdown."

She grinned, leaning closer. "Girlfriend, huh? I like the sound of that." Her voice was soft, teasing, yet full of sincerity.

We cooked side by side, our movements flowing in an unspoken dance of comfort and familiarity. Every touch, every glance felt like a quiet promise, the kind that didn't need words.

Dinner was simple, but it felt perfect. We sat across from each other, candlelight flickering between us. There was no rush, no urgency—just the quiet contentment of being together, the world outside fading away.

Afterwards, we curled up on the couch again, Ham settling at our feet. The evening wrapped around us like a soft blanket, filled with whispered confessions and shared dreams. I leaned my head on her shoulder, feeling the steady beat of her heart beneath my cheek.

"Thank you for today," I whispered, my voice barely above a breath.

She kissed the top of my head, her voice a tender murmur. "Every day with you is a gift."

We sat there in the comfortable silence, the glow of the evening fading into night. In her arms, I felt a sense of peace I hadn't known in years—a quiet certainty that, together, we could face whatever came next.

As the stars began to scatter across the sky outside, I knew that this was more than just an afternoon or a meal shared. 

It was the beginning of something deeper, something real. And in that moment, wrapped in her warmth, I felt like I had finally come home.