1 CHAPTER I.

I was back, I was back, my anxiety attack. It has been difficult for me to learn to control them, and although sometimes I do it with great success in others I have fallen apart and if it had not been for some living being at the right time, I do not know what would have happened.

My hands are shaking, my breathing is short, and my heart is going crazy. Before I would have thought that I am about to die. But as I said, this is something that happens very often, and I know for sure that it will soon.

And here I am sitting on the cold floor of my school bathroom cubicle, in front of the toilet, with my knees pressed to my breasts, trying to breathe and mentally telling myself that I can, I can stay calm, that it will happen, that I will not die. Exhale and inhale, exhale and inhale, I repeat to myself. Come on you can do it! I encourage myself again, not even in a situation like this am I able to speak and hear my voice. Coward, that's what you are. Recriminate my conscience, and why get into an argument with myself? If I know I am.

But, come on, this is not the time to throw things in your face. Just try to breathe and stay calm, it will soon pass.

One, two, one, two. Inhale; exhale. Little by little my anguish is disappearing, fear no longer gives a sign of life; my breathing manages to stabilize, and I no longer feel like my heart will leave my rib cage.

This attack has been more bearable than others.

It is my first day of classes -although the classes started three days ago-, and I have already had a bad time, and the fact is that just seeing so many people talking, talking to me, makes me anguish, makes me uncomfortable.

It's been more than a year since we moved here to Toronto, to start our lives from scratch; and being here since that time I have not spoken with anyone, other than the teachers, and my parents; At first everyone believed that I was deaf-mute because only with sign language I communicated, and that was how I liked it, it was more bearable. But my parents, unfortunately, decided one day to show up in my classroom, and ruin the whole charade, and yes, they didn't know what I had done. So since then, I have been the mockery of many, they have given me nicknames, they have done many detestable things to me, (something that my parents also do not know) without even knowing the reason for my silence.

After having controlled me and feeling that I am ready to face everything that is behind that metal door. I just open it and go to the wash, I wash my hands because God knows how many bacteria will be there, and I splash water on my face.

Not bad, huh. Claire is sure to be happy with this great achievement. I give that compliment while looking at my reflection in the mirror.

I'm not pretty at all, but I wasn't unlucky in my genes either. Nothing out of the ordinary, I have black eyes, if black, not brown; straight brown hair and tan pigmented skin, nothing out of the ordinary. Whoops.

Having already dried my face, and adjusting the shirt that had wrinkled a little, I take my bag and books, to leave.

But, I can't finish getting out of the bathroom, when a slim but very tall body collides with me, and I lose all stability causing the things in my bag to spread all over the floor, just like my books. What a person.

Instinctively I begin to gather my things without even seeing the person who caused this.

I know for sure that my past self would have made a fuss over this; but this me, this one who is in the present, only knows how to lower his head and keep silent.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the subject apologizes as he begins to pick up all the books that are on the floor, because of him it must be emphasized.

I know he's a boy, because of his voice, obviously, but also because of his shoes, and to tell the truth if he has style, but above all taste, because of the accent he has when he speaks, he tells me that he is not a native of here but not American either. which, it sure is English. Well, well, I still don't see or speak to him, but I feel his gaze on me. And that makes me feel very uncomfortable, so I hurried and I stand up, for now, yes, to leave.

"Here, and again, I'm sorry." He stretches his arm to offer me everything that he collected from me belonged, and that's when he looked up to observe it.

Her skin is pale, her black hair contrast very well with her. But what most catches my attention are his eyes, blue like the sky, or like the color of the Tahiti stone, they are very striking and graceful. he is very stunning, he may not be the muscular, blond type of guy with perfectly tanned skin. But it does have its charm.

I quickly pick up the pencils and head towards the exit, saying absolutely nothing.

But before completely crossing the threshold, he asks me what was I doing in the men's room? I don't answer, I just keep going. I don't need any distractions, let alone have a conversation with a certain blue-eyed Englishman, so I hastened my pace, to leave that area and head towards my first class. Mathematics, bless it.

And yes, it has never been my favorite subject, I get so, so bad, that I have had to look for tutorials online, but I also never understand anything. Professor Harry has wanted to put me in a tutor, but I have refused many times. The good thing is that he understands my situation a bit to force me to receive them. So I'm still the worst one in her class; and the best in the rest, well, not the best, but I do very well. I just hope he continues to be this generous and doesn't have to force myself to spend the afternoon with any homo sapiens in his precious living room.

I finish making myself comfortable in the chair in the classroom, when I heard the teacher say the following:

"Good morning students. Today someone new joins us. Come in, please."

And that's when I see it again. The boy in the bathroom. Is here.

"Guys, this is Evans Jones. And it will be with us from today. Evans takes a seat next to Miss Campbell, please" says the professor while pointing to the empty place next to me. And that's when our gazes connect, but out of survival instinct, he quickly averted her and looked back to the front.

I don't know if I should be happy to have the fortune to see him again. Or mad at Mr. Harry for telling him to take a seat next to me. And even more relevant, why do I get flustered and flustered with a simple boy I happened to meet in the boys' room? Out of the corner of my eye, I see him settle in with my peer, but I pretend to be concentrating on reading my math book. How pathetic.

"Hello" he addresses me shaking his hand in greeting, and with a smile on his face.

I don't say anything, but if I reciprocate his greeting, his touch compared to mine is warm and soft.

He only stares at me, and only for a short moment is silent.

"Why were you in the boys' restroom alone?" And there it was, the question I'd been waiting for from him.

It was there, for many reasons, dear blue eyes.

Of course, I don't answer. But in order not to be impolite, I take a paper and a pencil and write the following.

You should pay attention, the class is about to start. And you should also care less about the affairs of others.

He folded it when he finished writing it, and placed it next to his notebook; He just sees it and leaves it there.

Professor Harry starts talking about a test and tells us that we need to prepare if we want to be successful. I am paying all due attention to what he scribbles on the board and what he is saying about the passage of time, I do not want to miss any detail, I need to do well in this test.

Evans aka Blue Eyes. He has been silent and making notes in his notebook. I know because I have taken a look or two, and it has been fortunate with a good profile.

I look at him again, and I realize that it was a serious mistake because he is doing the same thing, our glances unite, he has a look that conveys, I don't know, something pleasant could be, a passive look, a look that way it can comfort you in difficult moments, I would like to believe that last.

He looked away and I refocused on what Mr. Harry is saying. But that doesn't last long because I feel like the Englishman touches my arm as he places a paper folded in half where I'm making notes.

I open it, and it says the following.

See you in the cafeteria next to the restrooms at lunchtime. Don't miss I have something for you.

And what does this think? He doesn't know me and he already quotes me. And do you have something for me? God, YOU DON'T KNOW ME.

What kind of English is this? I will not go. I fold the paper and drop it in the bottom of my bag.

The guy is a bit off, it's obvious. But what will it have for me? Curiosity tells me to go, but my reasonable part says no, and it is obvious that I choose the last one. Although I do not lose anything by making an appearance where I meet, right?