In seventh grade, it took him months to get used to angling his textbook and notes away from the arm she always slung around to prop on his desk, as if it were her space to have.
In eighth grade, he expected it but he still didn’t like it; maybe a fourth of a desk didn’t sound like much, but when the books are bigger and the tests longer, it was space he needed.
Ninth grade, he had accepted it as something he couldn’t change and spent their lectures drawing mediocre cartoons of cowboys and horses and grass plains on her arm, taking up her space instead.
Tenth grade, he held her hand for the constant warmth of her skin seeping into his palm in the always cold classroom; the only space they needed was the space between their fingers.
Eleventh grade was the year of too much space.
By twelfth grade, he was back between her fingers, feeling more at home than he had last, and decided once and for all that if she wanted it, he would gladly trade all of his space for her.