After that, she wouldn't stop watching. Every time I looked up, there she was, staring. In the hallway, in the cafeteria, even in my dreams.
I told the teacher, Mr. Solen. He frowned, scribbled something in his notebook, and waved me away. "Don't be dramatic."
Then came the touching.
First, a cold hand brushing my cheek as I walked past her desk. Then, fingers tracing the lines beneath my eyelids when I fell asleep in class. I woke up once to find her no more than an inch from my face.
"You're wasting them," she whispered.