Dear Maria, //All Time Low

1.

We were just kids,

We were just kids singing,

We were just kids,

We were just kids.

The words echoed through Quinn's head even after her headphones had been removed for the start of class. Trigonometry was not her favorite class, as could be expected by any seventeen year old high schooler.

As her teacher drowned on and on, Quinn found her black pen slowly and elegantly writing out the familiar and catchy lyrics onto her notes.

When she finished writing the lyrics to one song she moved to another.

It was a Thursday, meaning she should've been listening to the middle age teacher, who was most likely talking about the quiz the next day, but in her seat in the back of the room, she found herself hypnotized by the lyrics that seemed to be writing themselves.

It seemed as if there were suddenly more words than numbers on her paper.

She was pleasantly surprised when the bell rung, signaling the end of the period.

She stuffed her headphones into her ears pressing play on her phone letting the sweet sounds of guitars and Alex Gaskarth fill her ears.

She carried her orange binder in her hand, the orange barely noticeable with the binder being covered in band stickers and lyrics her and Maria had written. The stickers ranged from Blink-182 to Bruce Springsteen to U2, to twenty-one pilots, to her favorite band, All Time Low.

            Poison by All Time Low played as she walked to her English class.

Quinn skillfully dodged all the people walking too slowly for her liking, weaving in and out of people, and her feet in time with the beat that played in her ears.

She always found it tragic that the outside world was missing out in the music she experienced. It struck her that, how her world was surrounded by music while her headphones were in, but the world around her was filled with rambunctious teenagers that were either studying their way through high school or were looking for their next bong to smoke; and somehow that bored her. She saw no point in living a life in which music was not the focal point.

Quinn quietly walked into her English classroom, walking straight to her seat and getting out her composition book that had handwritten quotes and lyrics taped on it.

She silently glanced around the classroom; popular girl, popular girl who had a stick up her ass, baseball player, wrestler, kid who doesn't play basketball but wears Jordan's every day, Jimmy.

Jimmy.

Jimmy was that kid who faded into the background. And oddly enough he fascinated Quinn.