Fiction writers: You’re stuck in an elevator with an intriguing stranger. Write this scene.
Non-fiction writers: You’re stuck in an elevator with a person from your past. Write this scene.
Walking towards the elevator doors, I saw her.
Her, whom I had a huge crush on since the fifth grade. Her, whom I kept thinking of all through the first two years of high school even though we parted ways after elementary school. Her, whom I thought I would have a blossoming and romantic courtship with when we were at the right age. Her, whom I was obviously crazy for at such a young age. Her, who made me think about how attraction to the opposite sex occurs in juvenile minds.
Her, who doesn’t know anything about my intentions.
She was standing, waiting for the elevator to open. There were about five other people waiting. She was all on her own. I thought of taking the nearby stairs or the escalator on the opposite end instead, but what the heck! I just pretended not to notice.
“That’s right,” I thought to myself. “Pretend like you don’t recognize your classmates from way before. They wouldn’t recognize you anyway. Besides, awkwardness is bound to happen.”
So I acted like I didn’t know her. I was standing to her left with just another person between us. A few seconds passed. She glanced to her sides: right, left … then left again. I kept my gaze in front. My peripheral vision, however, revealed that she was looking at me, trying to remember who I was. Probably.
Maybe I triggered her memory? Maybe she would remember me? I’ve changed a lot, physically, all through these years. Maybe I was a familiar face and she was sorting her mind to see where and when she saw it.
Or maybe she immediately knew who I was and was just waiting for me to look in her direction.
“No chance of that happening,” I thought. I have developed the art of “being cold”.
I reach into my jacket’s inner pocket for my smartphone and pretend that I received an “urgent SMS”. Before I could take my phone out, the elevator reached our floor and the doors opened.