Spirals

James didn't remember walking back to his dorm. The icy wind cut through his coat, biting at his skin, but his mind was elsewhere, still caught in the fluorescent-lit hallway outside the theater.

Her laugh had been genuine. That word had settled in his head like a splinter, impossible to ignore. He replayed it over and over, trying to remember the exact pitch, the rhythm of it. Could it have been a polite laugh? No. It had been warm, unguarded. He was sure of it. He needed to be sure of it.

He'd said something ridiculous, hadn't he? "A massive dumpster fire," or something like that. She'd laughed at that. Was it the phrasing, or the tone? Did it matter? Maybe she just liked his voice. James couldn't help but grin at the idea.

The thought struck him suddenly, and he stopped walking for a moment, his breath curling in the cold air. "No, don't be an idiot. She doesn't even know you."

But she had laughed. That had to mean something.

By the time James reached his dorm, his hands were stiff from the cold. He fumbled with his keys, his thoughts swirling like static. Inside, the air was warm, but it felt stifling. His desk lamp cast a pale glow across the room as he shrugged off his coat and sat down, his breath still uneven.

His phone buzzed on the desk. A message from his mom. He hesitated before picking it up.

"Goodnight! Don't stay up too late studying. Your dad says he's proud of you for the grades."

James felt a faint, familiar knot forming in his chest. He could picture the way his father had said it, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hand gripped the remote too hard.

James quickly responded, then locked his phone and set it facedown. The knot tightened, then loosened, and then it wasn't there anymore. He gently rubbed a mark on the back of his hand while drifting off to sleep.

The next morning, James sat at his desk, a blank notebook in front of him. His psychology textbook lay open to a chapter on behavioral conditioning, but the words blurred together. He hadn't read a single one.

His pencil scratched against the page. Lines curved and intersected, becoming something familiar: her eyes. He added more, the tilt of her head, the soft line of her smile. It wasn't perfect, though. It wasn't warm enough. He tried again on the next page, pressing harder this time, as if the force could summon the exact image from his memory.

"Too stiff," he muttered under his breath. He added a few more lines, then tore the page out and crumpled it.

His eyes flicked angrily toward the trash can. Inside were two balled-up pages from last night's attempt. His chest felt tight again. "Why can't you get this right?"

Later, James sat at his computer, his browser open to the theater's website. The list of current movies filled the screen, their posters lined up in neat rows. He scrolled through them slowly, his eyes scanning the titles.

She'd walked into a different theater after they'd spoken. Which one had it been? A foreign film caught his attention. The poster was simple, just a silhouette of two figures against a snowy backdrop. He clicked on it, reading the brief synopsis. It didn't sound like something he'd watch normally.

It didn't matter.

"Maybe she'll watch it again..."

He hovered over the "Buy Ticket" button.

Dad: "We need to talk about your schedule. Call me when you can."

James stared at the notification, his fingers tightening on the mouse. "Why now?" he murmured under his breath, letting the messages linger on the screen. He clicked back to the ticket page and pressed Confirm.

That night, sleep didn't come easily. James lay in bed, the blankets pulled tightly around him, his mind a tangle of half-formed thoughts. He could still hear her laugh, see the way her coat swallowed her hands.

12:42 AM.

He rolled onto his side, his arm pinned beneath him. "She probably doesn't even remember it." The thought made his chest tighten again. "No. That's not true. You don't smile like that if it doesn't matter."

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and then once again, the faint vibration rattling against the wood. He didn't look. He already knew who it was.