Garrix & Me (Martin Garrix Fanfiction)

Chapter 50

Quick note - this is possibly the longest and most serious chapter of this story so far. It took me a while to write (as you all know haha sorry). Anyways, be emotionally ready because it gets a little intense.

Martin's POV

"Yes, you actually should stop that," I snap.

Fran looks taken aback for a split second but her demeanor shifts and she laughs lightly. "So, shopping then?"

I shake my head and turn around to face the street. In a few moments, she walks around the bench and takes a seat beside me, taking a sip from the coffee cup. I watch people pass by, and catch sight of a family of three taking in the sights. The little boy clutches his father's hand and his mothers with his other, his eyes wide in amazement, gazing at the twinkling lights on the street poles.

"Tourists," Fran comments, following my gaze.

I snap out of my reverie and run a hand through my hair, wishing I'd brought a damn pair of gloves.

"You're not very talkative today."

I turn to Fran and raise my eyebrows. "I just don't have anything to say."

"Small talk isn't your forte then?" she inquires with a small smile. Her cheeks are dotted with freckles and her blonde hair cascades down her shoulders.

"Nope."

"Okay. Well then. We'll just sit here," she shrugs and takes another sip.

"You don't have to," I say blandly.

"But I want to," Fran replies nonchalantly.

"Why?"

"This is a public bench," she says, gesturing to where we're seated.

I nod and stand, dusting off my jeans. I shove my phone into my pocket and start walking. I turn back after a few feet, expecting her to be following after me but instead, she's still seated on the bench, looking at her boots.

"You're annoying," I say once I reach her.

"Is that why you came back?" Fran grins.

"No. I came back because I like this bench."

I take a seat and feel extremely awkward. It's not that I want to talk to Fran, it's just that she's here and no one else is. And there's something about the way she talks that's nagging at me. It's as if I know her somehow and its fucking insane but maybe she's just a genuine person or something. It's strange. I shake my head and stare down the street.

"So tell me. Why are you so anxious?" Fran asks out of nowhere.

I look at her, brows furrowed in confusion. Does she know? Could she know? It's impossible. I forcefully shrug off my paranoia.

"I'm not," I reply, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees.

She leans forward too. "It's pretty damn obvious that you are. But I won't force you to tell me."

"Just going through some shit like everybody else," I decide to answer as generally as possible.

"That shit have something to do with those bandages on your hands?" She points toward where my knuckles are covered.

I breathe out slowly. "Yes."

When she doesn't reply, I turn to look at her. She's staring at me, with a curious look on her face and I return the expression.

"You're very cryptic," she frowns.

I smirk and she shakes her head. "It's actually very annoying."