You pick the fallen eyelash off your notebook, and hold it on the tip of your index finger. Contemplating it for a moment, you squeeze it between thumb and forefinger and turn it, admiring its shape. It curves like a parenthesis, something your eyelashes don't normally do. You think of his eyelashes, gently sloping at the ends. Blonde eyelashes—harder to see when they fall. Not like yours, black like his blazer, black like the skinny jeans he wears all the time. The ones he's wearing right now, you realize, looking over at him during math class. He's asleep, head resting on an upturned wrist. He doesn't care, and that's part of what attracts you to him.

You watch as his head sways, elbow slipping off the desk. He jolts, and settles back again, eyes never opening. You smile, but looking at him reminds you of last night, when you finally told him that you were in love with him. How, being the coward that you are, you chose to write it in an instant message, and how, right after sending it, you shut your laptop, heart pounding ridiculously. It was after midnight, and you went to bed but weren't able to sleep, thinking of your words and wondering how he'd react.

Now it seems that he wasn't able to sleep either. You let your eyes focus in on him again, and are surprised to find him watching you. Blushing, you look away, searching for somewhere, anywhere, to rest your eyes. You alight on the eyelash still held between your fingers. You shift it over to your index finger again; hold it up at eye level. You address it inside your head: "Please let him love me." You don't know who you're pleading with, but you blow the eyelash anyway.

With nothing left to focus on, your eyes drift back to him. He is still watching you.