I like constants. I like truths that are so sharp and narrow that if you could see them, they would be razorblades.  I don't like speculation and maybes, or what ifs. One can’t build on them, and they never have a future.  I’m starting not to like you, because that’s all you’re becoming.  Yesterday, I looked up love in my Oxford English dictionary.  Situated in between lovat and loveable, I was hoping for two or three lines of certainty- after all, their claim is to "outstandingly clear definitions". Instead; nineteen lines. If you exclude the meanings of statements such as "falling in love", and explanations of stupid terms relating to tennis, and British colloquialisms, it left me with three major definitions.  I would have rather had one, naturally, but I believed that I could decide which you were quickly and easily.  I jotted the definitions down onto a small piece of paper, and folded it carefully into my wallet.

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Love n. 1 deep affection or fondness.  2 sexual passion.  3 sexual relations

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1

The next morning, I seek you out after I had wandered into school.  In year seven, I first met you when we found that we both preferred to arrive early, in order to finish, or sometimes start, our homework.  Through four years, we would sit together every morning, gradually learning more about the others life. Their wants, their loves, their hates, their problems, their needs.  Then, this year, you’ve been fading away from me. You no longer sit at our table in the library every morning, preferring instead to wake late and smoke at the back seat of the bus with your new friends.  I don’t sit at that corner table any more.  It looks like an island; sacred, deserted.  I suppose the old clichés are true; you never do realise what you have until it has gone.  The library door swings open silently as I push it, the same scuff marks and dents as it has always had.  I round the bookcases, wander through the section on British history, navigate my way to our table, barely darling to look and see if you are there.  I’ve been hoping that you are, even though I promised myself that I would never hope for anything again.

I’m staring at the floor, and your bag is there. Your shoes are there, your grey socks, your too long and slightly fraying trouser cuffs. I skip upwards, and your face is there.  Smiling at me, waiting for me, maybe.  I think back to the sliver of paper in my wallet, and smile back at you.  I know that in some ways you’re still uncertain, but there’s definitely a fondness there.  You’re saying hi and telling me that you’ve missed me so. I sit next to you, and it’s almost like we were back in the days when you would tell me everything, and I would tell you all the things that I knew wouldn’t harm you.  

Your face looks like it has something to say, but instead your apologising for how you’ve been lately. You say that you need to start getting your homework done, need to pass your exams, and could I help you with your English coursework?  I think to myself; and my heart sinks. You want me for my English skills, or maybe it’s an excuse to get close again. I’m hoping it is the second one, because after all, you said that you’ve missed me. And, when was the last time you lied to me? I don’t even think you’re able to, unless it’s a new skill you’ve learnt with your new friends. I can’t tell you how grateful I feel that we’re back at our old haunt, so I don’t. Even if I could summon the words to speak how I feel, I don’t know if I would. There’s always been a grey area around us, something which we never discussed, however much we analysed the other’s problems.  I think back to the slip of paper in my wallet, and pick up the shiny and unopened copy of Romeo and Juliet that you lay on the scarred table.  I’ve read the play before, but you say that you haven’t even started, because you haven't attended the last few English lessons. It almost feels like six months ago, where we'd confide every detail of our lives as you helped me with algebraic equations, and I detangled your confused prose.

I flick through the book as you begin to talk about your new friends. Jealously surges up in me, bitter and cloying at the back of my mouth as you say how much fun they are to be around, how you go out at weekends.  I think to myself that I must be ill, because I’ve never felt this way before. My fingers scroll across the pages and I feel the sharp new edges dig into my fingertips as you laugh. The front cover is a photo of a young man and women clasped in a close embrace. Her skinny wrists enveloped by his muscular hands, plumped lips, rouge, blond hair dye, lavish period costume.  I can’t see us like this, but then, we’re nothing like it. You’re carefully scruffy, hair all over the place, but I know about the box of hair products hidden under your bed.  I’m smart, neat, invisible in a crowd. No way is this us. I try to visualise us in the same position as Romeo and Juliet, and I can feel your hands pressed against the small of my back, can taste the scent of your deodorant and shampoo, sense the passion in the air. A shudder runs deep down my spine, and as I look up, you’re grinning at my distraction.

I say, shall we press on? What do you know about Romeo and Juliet?

It’s about love, isn’t it? I don’t know much more than that. Love between two people who shouldn’t be in love, two families at war, or something. Two people who can’t bear to be apart. And the power of love, I guess. How it can destroy- like, it destroys Romeo and Juliet- and how it can make things better. It brings the families together, shows them what idiots they’ve been. Yeah. Love. I guess. I mean, it’s important to everyone, everyone has been in love so everyone can sympathise-- empathise.  It’s a tragedy, I know that. But it’s more a love story, love is more important than tragedy.

Love, again, I think. That term. So what was love for Romeo and Juliet? Definition two, sexual passion would be the most applicable. The passion is definitely there, and their marriage was consummated. I smile at you, telling you that as usual you’ve got it, but that you need to read the book before I can help you any more. The bell rings, shrill echoes bouncing from the bookcases and the walls as you scoop your books into your bag. We stand to leave and walk to the door. As we turn to walk in our different directions, you put a hand on my arm to stop me, and say there’s a party on Friday, a friend-of-a-friend, would I like to go? You’d really like me to. And before I know it, we’re meeting at eight at the station, and I’m walking away in some kind of daze.