+Crave.

Her hand, in mine, was warm and soft.  And I have to admit, I was scared.
There were people everywhere.  People I knew.  People who could judge.  People who, if they noticed, would turn up their nose and look down upon me as long as I lived.
I hate being judged.
So, I was scared.
I twitched my fingers, nervously, weaving them through hers.  I needed this.  I craved it, the very feeling.  I needed someone else's skin in contact with mine.  I needed contact.  I needed someone.  My hand was sore, raw, raw with the absolute need to fulfill this craving that had been denied of me for over a month.  Her hand was soft, ladylike, my hand was dry, and rough.  Her hand moved, slightly, and I gave it a gentle squeeze.
I was lost, lost in the projection on the screen.  There were names, sounds, words coming out of the speaker, flowing through my ear and my brain to be turned into understandable content.  I was lost, lost in this separate world, my single tie to the real world being the hand I was holding.  I saw the dry, plentiful fields being harvested, the hills behind them, felt the California sun on my back.  In the middle of a classroom, on an overcast day.  I also felt the hand holding mine, moving every few minutes, could picture it's exact location underneath the desk.
There were other things in my head, then.  Invasive thoughts.  Memories of him, memories of cuddling on the couch, hot chocolate, candy kisses.  Kisses when no one was looking.  Kisses that were just for the sake of kissing, to be loved, to be.  I felt a tear in my chest.  Somewhere, I knew.  Those were gone.  Forever.  He had moved on, found someone else, and here I was, clinging to these memories like a broke man clings to the last of his pennies, clinging to this girl's hand like there was actually something between us.
And that was the worst part.  There was nothing.  Nothing, save a friendship.
We both wanted it.  The physical contact, the ability to pretend that the other person was somebody else.
The movie goes on.  More sounds, more names, more words.  One death.  A second.  Then, finally, the death that brings the movie to a close.  She has an expression that I can't decipher, I think her eyes are red, and I can't tell if it's because of the movie or because of what's going through her own head.  Or because of me.
The lights go on.  The class discusses the movie, what they thought of it.  Her and I are still holding hands, shifting positions, knowing that it'll come to an end eventually.  There's sweat between our hands now, formed from the lack of disconnection.
The teacher stands up, then walks right by us.  Our hands fall apart, like they were never together in the first place.  And then, it's over.