Before the Skittering Away by Anita Morozova

The classroom smelled of stale coffee and paper.

Fluorescent lights hummed above as if they, too, were keeping time with something urgent.

Mira's hands hovered over the open notebook, fingers tracing inked lines without touching the pen. She blinked too fast, as if to clear a screen. Her shoulders rose when Ana laughed at a sentence on the laptop, and the movement stayed, small and stubborn, like a bird that couldn't quite settle.

When Ana read aloud, Mira's breath lengthened, then shortened, matching the cadence of the words as though they were a metronome. Her pencil rolled back and forth along the desk until it clicked against the ruler; each click made her fingers twitch with an echo of impatience or pleasure—she couldn't tell which.

Ana pushed a loose curl behind her ear; the motion sent a shadow of light across her cheek. Mira watched the way the shadow pooled where the curl refused to lie flat. The room narrowed to that tiny private geography. A warm rush crawled up Mira's neck and flooded her ears with the steady, unmistakable thud of her pulse. The fluorescent hum sharpened into a steady, attention-seeking drum.

Ana spoke about citations and structure; Mira answered with a nod that was too slow, deliberate, as if timing could keep the air between them from spilling. When Ana frowned at a paragraph, Mira found herself smoothing the page with a fingertip, as if the paper could be coaxed into softer shapes. Her thumb lingered along Ana's margin notes, reading the handwriting as if each curl and slash were a map.

A draft of wind from the ajar window stirred the stack of printouts. The papers trembled, and Mira reached out before she realized, trapping a corner against the desk. Her palm pressed there for a count and then another, the pressure steadying her whole arm. When Ana shifted, Mira's hand tightened without thinking—an index of need more than practicality—and she squeezed just enough to keep the paper, and something else, from skittering away.

Ana paused, mid-sentence, and Mira's jaw clenched. The muscles under her ear moved like waves. She imagined Ana's voice folding into the hum of fluorescent lights and decided it could be a quiet thing to hold onto. Her fingers found Ana's sleeve, brushing the soft place where the fabric had thinned from wear. Mira did not speak; she smoothed the worn thread with trembling thumbnails. The motion was slow and reverent, as if cataloguing small miracles: the ragged cuff, the faded elbow, the faint coffee stain near the hem.

Ana looked down. Her pupils seemed to bloom, suddenly large and reflective. The fluorescent hum dimmed; outside, a distant siren swelled and then receded like a held breath. Mira let her hand rest where it was, warm and steady. Her chest eased, then tightened again, a wave repeatedly breaking against the ribs.

When Ana smiled: tiny, private, the smile reached her eyes first, and Mira felt the room contract and expand in the same breath. She straightened, not to move away but to create more space for the gravity pulling them together. The clock on the wall ticked, and each tick landed like a small promise Mira kept only for herself.