If James was in love, you wouldn’t know it. He still walked around, draped in black, hands cemented in his pockets. Nothing about his exterior gave the impression that he ever wanted to have contact with the outside world. He didn’t look up at the barista when he ordered his coffee. He didn’t make eye contact when the old lady sneezed on him at the cross walk. He kept on marching to the beat of his own dark drum, until he vanished into the abyss of his bedroom.
But his mom was confident that he was in love. James’ father could be bothered to look up from his newspaper, but his mom knew something was going on. When she looked at his phone bill, his data was consumed by thousands of text messages. His report card shifted gears, from C’s to B’s and an A. Something was up.
When James was in the shower, she would sneak into his room, just to peak and try to make sense of his actions. She found crumpled up paper by the trash can. She grabbed it and run into her room to read it.
He was in love, but she hadn’t anticipated this.