Novelist Tracks

Maeve was accustomed to the agonizing train ride to Berkeley. Ever since she started her studies on creative writing, she was almost never bored; any kind of ride was an adventure to her, even at least within the confines of her mind. Three years of trying to earn her bachelor's degree and she was capable of thinking up just about anything.

Her habit of creating stories on public transportation sprouted up on her first month of commuting. Once upon a time she was restless, and she then decided that creating a drama about a singing gorilla that married a mermaid was better than doing nothing at all. After all, an idle mind was the devil's weapon, was it not? Ever since then, she'd relax on the train and forget her surroundings, too engrossed with her own thoughts and stories to care about anything or anyone else.

That day was no ordinary day, though. Just as Maeve was about to space out, mentally preparing herself to create her sequel to Mr. Panda Plays Hockey, she froze in her own tracks. Her eyes fell on the sunshine in the rain, the black in the white, the drum kit in an orchestra - she was staring at the most beautiful boy she had ever laid her little grey eyes on standing outside the train.

Maeve knew that her attraction to the man wasn't caused by the lack of being around the opposite gender. Being in college, it was kind of a requirement to interact with every kind of person out there. She knew that her fascination had something to do with his horn-rimmed glasses and his messy dirty blond hair spilling out from underneath a grey beanie, but after another moment's study, she realized that it had more to do with his body language rather than his looks - the boy was furiously scribbling away on a tiny notebook. He was so into what he was doing that he didn't realize that the train's doors were opening before him. She liked that kind of concentration because it was how she acted many times, too.

Apparently, the heavens were in her favor because just as the early morning passengers started to fill in the train, the young man finally looked up from his notebook, and his eyes landed on the still empty seat next to her own.

Maeve's heart started a marathon, racing as fast as a woodchuck would chuck wood. She almost lost her breath once she noticed that he was wearing a Star Wars t-shirt, Darth Vader's figure and The Empire Strikes Back printed across the tee. He was practically perfect; she wished oh-so desperately that her ears weren't turning pink and that if they were, for him not to care or bother to notice.

'Act calm. Act cool. Don't freak him out. Don't freak him out. Everything's fine,' Maeve reassured herself as the boy sat himself down. She tried to close her eyes and continue thinking up the story about Mr. Panda, but she was too distracted by the smell of his perfume and his breathing. Why did he have to breathe so loudly? Hell, why was she listening to him breathe at all?'

By that time, Maeve's heart was hurting too badly to handle. She forgot how to move, forgot how to speak. She wanted to share one of her Star Wars puns and make jokes about scruffy-looking nerf herders, but her body wouldn't allow her to properly sit up or even open her eyes.

Her mental battle was then halted by the screeching of the train's metal wheels on the track. Without her noticing, fifteen minutes had passed. The train ride was over, and she was still where she started: without the name of the guy seated beside her and also without the continuation of her plot line to Mr. Panda Plays Hockey. Pissed and still dizzy with agitation at the guy's breathing and her own self for not gathering up enough courage, she pried her eyes open and frowned.

She sighed as the recording she heard five days a week played, the woman announcing the train's arrival at Berkeley and leaned off the window. She never knew that like at first sight could be so painfully heartbreaking. While taking a mental note to write about it in the future, she hastily stood up, shouldering her backpack; without meaning to, she accidentally hit the boy beside her, knocking the tiny notebook out of his hands.

To save herself the humiliation of apologizing a million times, she quickly crouched down to pick up the small book.

But her heart almost flew out of her chest as her eyes landed on the creamy white parchment paper. She let out a startled gasp as she brought up the tiny notebook from the floor, considering the rough lines sketched onto the paper.

It was her figure, slumped on the seat of the train with closed eyelids giving the impression that she was sleeping.

Maeve had never been drawn as beautifully before - heck, she didn't think she'd ever been chosen as a subject to draw, either. Her thumping heart knew this as well as her mind did, the heat rising to her cheeks as rapidly as never before.

“I-,” was the only thing the boy before her could stammer.

She finally mustered up the courage to look him in the eyes, and as her own grey met his blue, she found that his cheeks were about colored as hers were. This fact made her immediately glance back down at the notebook, and her voice came out shyer than it had ever been. “You drew this within fifteen minutes?”

Maeve handed him the notebook as he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, noticeably struggling to find a response. “Yeah...” He let out a tiny laugh, and the awkwardness was threatening to close up her throat. “I- I don't know what else to say.”

She looked out the window at her school, suddenly realizing that they attended the same college. He was probably an art major, so their buildings couldn't be too far apart from each other. Those thoughts stayed in her head as she muttered a goodbye to the boy, hastily walking out the train and succumbing to her awkwardness.

A part in the back of her mind was kicking her for not putting any effort into having a conversation with him, while the other part was rejoicing in blatant happiness that she was able to avoid another probable embarrassing encounter.

Her ears were turning pink as she walked towards the buildings, the heat evident under her cold fingertips. The thought of a boy- an attractive one, at that -sketching her was enough to conjure a deadly tint to her cheeks. The moment of basking in her joy about it abruptly ended as she realized she walked away too soon. She should've complimented his work or asked if he sold his art online! It would've started a conversation that could've ended in them falling in love at a coffee shop with heart-shaped foam on their cappuccinos.

She sighed into the air, cursing her tendencies to romanticize every situation. Being a novelist made her think that way and as much as she loved writing, she hated it for it made her overthink scenarios that would've been normal for another person. The boy was clearly sketching her for the mere facts that she was right next to him and that he was bored on the train.

She shook her head away from any other thought about him that could further swell her heart as she walked the familiar stone path towards the coffee shop.

She ignored the flashes in her mind of what could've happened in the very same little shop had she not chickened out on an opportunity to make a new friend.

She studied the hem of her sweater until it was her turn to order, for if she didn't invest herself into picking at something, she would have given in and broken out into a spoken word poem about like at first sight and her stupidity.

“Mocha cappuccino please, with the little heart,” she wearily told the barista, rummaging through her wallet for spare change.

“Make that a two,” a voice added from behind her, a ten dollar bill handed to the worker before she could respond.

Maeve's heart stopped beating as she breathed in the familiar perfume, turning her head slowly to face the blue eyes she had abandoned only moments before.

“Who should I call it out to?” the barista asked, as if a girl staring speechlessly at a guy at the counter was a common occurrence.

The boy sent Maeve a lopsided grin. “Hunter,” he said, half to the barista and half to her, whom he stuck out a hand to.

She carefully took it in hers, a smile starting to form on her lips as well. “Maeve.” He wasn't asking for her name, but at that moment it felt appropriate.

Because right then, she knew that if she were to write about meeting the love of her life for the very first time, it would've gone exactly as that.

Maybe being a novelist wasn't as bad as she thought.