Okay, so the other night I just randomly wrote this scene in my poor abused spiral notebook. I guess I'll post it on here. It hasn't been revised or edited, and really I haven't looked at it much yet. So if it sucks, oh well. XD

I'd never noticed just how lonely I really was. Even though I knew that that one touch was meaningless to him, it meant the world to me. Memories had come rushing back to me, as if by merely touching my shoulder he had opened some imaginary door to let them in.

I feel a tear run down my cheek, and he lifts his hand off my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," He sputters, looking confused.

"Don't be." I place my hands in my lap and stare at them as I fiddle with my fingers. I wish that he would put his hand back where it had been, but I know that it won't happen. My life just doesn't work that way. I thrive only in my overworked imagination.

The sound of his footsteps pierces through the silence as he walks away, growing faster and faster, quieter and quieter, driving me crazy, until finally they stop. Is he turning around? I bite my lip, and wait to hear his footsteps again. I want to call out for him, but I don't.

Suddenly, I do hear the footsteps. After pinching myself to make sure that I haven't fallen asleep, I look up, expecting to see him walk through the door. The cruel sting of disappointment that follows is too much for me to handle. The janitor mozies (is that a word?) into the room, mopping the wood floor casually as he goes. I shudder as tears began to stream down my face at a steadier pace. The janitor is an old man with a kind face. He offers a sympathetic smile and holds out a tissue for me. I take it but don't use it, rather wring it in my hands, and the old man continues to mop.