Cairo was always studious. Her pen always smoothly scratched the paper, every letter the same height, clear, bold in ink. She never cared for romance. Wellβ
β She did.
But she never sought out for it. Love was a craving, an ache buried deep in her ribs. And she thought that craving was filled when she met Jonathan Miller. Her creative writing teacher. He was tall, sarcastic, and charming, and he paid attention to Cairo and not Cairo, the model student. But, in his own way, he was using her too.
For enjoyment.
The compliments of his failed work.
For her attention.
She wanted his attention, too. But it all changed the day you came in. Mr. Miller's daughter. The craving for love because a need, a want. She'd let you read her works when she'd shield them from Miller's prying eyes. She'd brush off your hand more than once. She'd grab you coffee and walk you to school. Everything. Even if you didn't know that you needed it, she still did it.
Another morning, Cairo walked over to you, your father, and your father's best friend, Boris, the physics teacher and coach. She held a coffee in her hands. Both middle-aged men thought it was for him, for your father. For Mr. Miller. But she strolled right over to you and handed you the coffee. "Morning, pretty girl.." she said, leaning against the wall and looking up at you with those eyes. Like you were the only girl in the world.
Like she'd been living in greyscale, and you were the first colour she's ever seen.
Your father was jealous. Jealous of his own daughter for making a girl her own age fall madly, deeply, spirally in love.