There was a bookstore he passed by on his way home from school, a little hole-in-the-wall of a place. Sometimes through the store window, he'd see her running around; one time, they even exchanged glances.
He thought about stopping in sometime, but... mmm, no. Dad wanted him home on weekdays if he didn't have practice. He wasn't much of a reader in the first place, anyway.
missed connections
dreams from another timeline or memories forgotten, it's real if you want it to be (updated whenever but tbh probably never)
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"Yeah, whatever. Watch it, Little Man," he scoffed.
He missed his next step somehow and sailed straight to the floor in the middle of the school hallway.
He missed his next step somehow and sailed straight to the floor in the middle of the school hallway.
He heard her friend whisper his name from the bus seat behind him, but he couldn't catch what she said.
He was always a little suspicious that she was cheating somehow, but maybe she really was just that good at guessing how many candies were in the jar.
He had gone to the library today because he really needed to pass this history test, and focusing at home was a lost cause. However all he could do was glare from the top of his cubicle as she gabbed at the other boy, backed by her usual discordant symphony.
To be frank, he didn't like him. Not just him for that matter, most of his entourage. They were all real squirrely and honestly awful, though truth be told, there was probably an alternative universe out there where he was a part of that nebula. That thought kept him up at night.
So, needless to say, he didn't offer any condolences when word got out about the accidental trigger-fire, just like how he didn't receive any condolences from him about Mom.
He was fine with that.
So, needless to say, he didn't offer any condolences when word got out about the accidental trigger-fire, just like how he didn't receive any condolences from him about Mom.
He was fine with that.
He always rolled his eyes a little how Dad insisted on including middle names when signing anything somewhat legally binding. He didn't hate his own name or anything, but it always felt super weirdly formal for something as simple as a fucking permission slip.
So when he picked up the slip left on the table that morning and saw on the student's name line that he wrote down the whole 3-part enchilada with "Abel" in the middle, well, he couldn't help but grumble a little bit.
So when he picked up the slip left on the table that morning and saw on the student's name line that he wrote down the whole 3-part enchilada with "Abel" in the middle, well, he couldn't help but grumble a little bit.
First he couldn't stop seeing her in the waking world. Now she was invading his dreams, too.
She wasn't special. She was just some weird, aloof upperclassman that dressed in black a lot and probably listened to The Cure or A7X or maybe LCD Soundsystem while taking pseudoscientific internet quizzes or sobbing into her diary about how no one really understands her. She wasn't even that pretty. He could get any girl he wanted at school if he tried. He had game.
But there was something about her, about her eyes he first saw while crawling back from the quarry the summer before 8th grade. No, not like that. Like, he wanted to see if he saw the same things she did, or maybe vice versa.
...Nevermind. That's fucking stupid, forget it. Sorry.
She wasn't special. She was just some weird, aloof upperclassman that dressed in black a lot and probably listened to The Cure or A7X or maybe LCD Soundsystem while taking pseudoscientific internet quizzes or sobbing into her diary about how no one really understands her. She wasn't even that pretty. He could get any girl he wanted at school if he tried. He had game.
But there was something about her, about her eyes he first saw while crawling back from the quarry the summer before 8th grade. No, not like that. Like, he wanted to see if he saw the same things she did, or maybe vice versa.
...Nevermind. That's fucking stupid, forget it. Sorry.