Zemiro's gaze shifted toward the wall clock at the upper left corner of the whiteboard.
The minute hand had just moved a single notch, signaling that thirty minutes had passed without much progress.
The lesson time is up, he thought flatly.
As his gaze lowered, his eyes caught the figure of Nazma, who seemed to be losing focus. The girl was massaging the bridge of her nose, letting the sunlight from the window reflect off the strands of her slightly messy hair.
Nazma's focus was shattered. Her mind was still stuck on what had just happened. Was Zemiro really watching me? Nazma stretched both her arms across the desk, trying to shake off her restlessness. Or did our eyes just meet by chance?
Those questions kept spinning, intertwining with her curiosity about Dirga's social media status that Zemiro had mentioned. What was in it?
Nazma lifted her left hand, propping up her chin while letting her weight lean to that side. Unable to help herself, her weight shifted to the right as she tried to steal another glance at Zemiro.
However, the view in front of her changed drastically. Dirga swapped seats with Zemiro. Nazma's eyes widened, her heart felt as if it had jumped into her throat.
"There, all done," Dirga said casually to Nazma.
Nazma froze, completely not understanding the meaning behind the sudden change of positions.
Now, Zemiro was right to the left of Celline. Nazma held her breath. Is this a dream? How can I be this close to him again? Reflexively, Nazma pulled back her outstretched hands. She adjusted her sitting position until she was perfectly upright.
"Nazma," called the dark-skinned boy—Dirga.
Nazma turned. Her face was still blank, not yet having a clue about the situation.
Dirga then gave a hand gesture—a secret code that made the hair on the back of Nazma's neck stand up. How could Dirga do that while smiling mischievously as if he were guiltless? Beside him, Zemiro, wearing his blue mask, just watched the interaction of the two humans intently. His eyes moved back and forth; one moment to Nazma, the next to Dirga, recording everything behind his calm gaze.
Dirga cleared his throat quite loudly, intentionally breaking the silence among the four of them. He nudged Zemiro's shoulder, who was now sitting right beside him after the swap.
"Miro, let me borrow an eraser. Mine disappeared, swallowed by another dimension," Dirga said casually, even though an entire eraser clearly lay on his desk.
Zemiro did not look away. "Use your own, Dirga. Is your visual accuracy declining?"
"So stingy," Dirga grumbled, then he turned to look at Nazma, who was still sitting stiffly in front of him. "Naz, this Robot won't share. Can I borrow yours?Just pass it to Zemiro, and let him give it to me."
Nazma startled. Her heart, which had just begun to calm down, was now thumping hard again. She reached into her pencil case with clumsy movements, taking out her small white eraser.
With a hand that trembled slightly, Nazma held out the eraser.
Unfortunately, instead of reaching Dirga directly, she had to pass her prince first—Zemiro—due to their new seating arrangement.
Zemiro was forced to lift his hand. Just as he was about to take the eraser from Nazma's fingers, a small jolt from the desk leg nudged by Dirga made their coordination slip.
The tips of Zemiro's cold fingers brushed directly against the warm skin of the back of Nazma's hand.
Only for a second. For Nazma, it felt like a jolt of static electricity that traveled all the way to the crown of her head. She immediately let go of her eraser until the object fell onto Zemiro's notebook.
"S-sorry," Nazma whispered softly, barely audible.
Zemiro remained motionless. His eyes were fixed on the eraser lying on his notes, then shifted to stare at his own hand that had just touched Nazma. Behind his blue mask, he took a short, bated breath.
Dirga, seeing the scene, immediately propped up his chin, flashing a triumphant smile. "Now, that's more like it. Good teamwork."