The words were not enough. Her page was littered with hapless syllables; with generic symbols of a similar appearance to the ones he had drawn on her hand. But that had meant something.
Not the navy ink scrawled in indecipherable script across the creased lines of her palm. The straggly ink imprints were but a means to an end. No. That he had favoured her hand at all, was the tell-tale sign.
There had been paper - sheets of blue lined paper in scholastic abundance. He may have been unaware? She didn't think so. The warmth of his hand as it grasped her own told her more than his adorable stammering ever could have.
She had smiled - just a little, at his nervousness. There was no need for fear of offence. He had seen the sincerity in her eyes. Surely, he had noticed the tingling in her fingertips as he grasped them?
Theirs was a language that spoke volumes on it's own.
With a contented sigh, she scrunched up the note. It was not needed. Everything went without saying.
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