Lonerism

The Red Ink Pen

A.N. If you enjoy quirky teenage romances that blossom over a few short encounters, you'll love this! This was also my FIRST EVER ONE SHOT so let me know if I did good! I love your comments and votes, they make my day!

ALSO, THE CUTENESS OF THIS GIF CANNOT BE IGNORED, THOUGH. #Jonnor shippers unite! (Taken from The Fosters, on Freeform). Anyway, to the one-shot:

The Red Ink Pen

There was this boy that I'd first seen in the hallways at school. He wasn't anything special. He wasn't at all out of the ordinary. But somehow, I'd noticed him all the same. Walking along, tuddling behind the rest of the school crowd. He blended in well, but he still caught my eye.

I didn't think much of it at the time. Or of him. I'd dismissed it. It was nothing.

But every time after that, every time he crossed me in the hallways, every time I'd see him at the back of the classroom or in the lunch-hall, I couldn't help but notice him, just stare at him - god knows why. I just did. Whenever he was there, it was as if I knew somewhere inside, and my chest would flutter, and my eyes would just find him. He never really noticed me, though, thank god.

I was fourteen, the first time I saw him, standing there, with sweet blond hair, and eyes that shimmered softly like tepid lake water under the moon.

He didn't notice me. He walked right passed me, eyes guided towards his feet, shuffling down the hallway unnoticed by everyone and everything, except me.

One second, he was there, and I noticed, and I was staring, and then he was walking passed, walking away, and finally, he'd turned a corner and I'd shrugged my teenage shoulders and I'd continued in the opposite direction like nothing had happened. Like my whole day wasn't just made when I saw him. Like my soul mate hadn't just flittered passed me.

Even after he'd left, he was still lingering in my mind, always there, even though most of the time I was hardly even aware of him. How much I thought about him. How much he impacted my life, and I didn't even know who he was. His name. His age. The littlest things about him that become the most meaningful. Like how his cute puffy lips curl and crease when he smiles, or how he fumbles with his fingers when he's nervous, or even how he stutters when he tries to lie. But he never lied to me.

All it took was a look. Just one look, one fast, timeless look at him, and he'd caught me.

I didn't believe in love, especially not with a boy, but there was something about him, something I couldn't put my finger on. It was an obsession. Almost like I couldn't carry on unless I saw him one more time, unless I didn't find his name, find some stupid way to talk to him, to get the ball rolling. It was like I needed him. I wanted him. I craved him.

Every time I saw him, I'd write down the time and the place, and I'd devised some silly little schedule of where he'd be and when he'd be there. Just for one quick glance at him. And then, I'd turn away, shy and quiet, and walk off.

I didn't want much. I didn't know him and he didn't know me. But there was just something there, and I didn't understand what it was. It was just odd and silly and all in my under-developed, pubescant teenaged head.

The first thing he'd said to me was, "Hey, can I borrow a pen?"

He'd forgotten his pen. He'd tapped on my shoulder, unaware. But I knew he was sitting right behind me. He'd sat right behind me in maths since the beginning of the year.

He was only asking for a pen, I told myself. I had a spare, after all. I gave it to him. He said "Thanks" and I'd said "You're welcome" and that was it. That was the big moment. Gone. Ruined. Over.

But I'd remembered everything about it. The typical English weather out the window, grey skies and grey clouds and grey buildings with grey people like me sitting inside with grey faces. Dull and raining.

I'd remembered that horrible tingling that ran through my body when he tapped my shoulder. Almost like my body recognised his touch. His voice. Raspy, but soft. Kind, but mysterious.

He'd caught me again.

The second time he'd spoken to me, I'd heard his voice again. I turned. He was rushing up to me. I didn't know why. My heart dropped, and I had the sudden urge to run up to him and leap into his arms and plant sweet kisses all over his face and neck and body. That was the moment that I'd figured out who I was.

And obviously, I didn't run up to him and shower him in kisses. But looking back, maybe I should have. Instead, I stood still, frozen in place as he jogged up to me.

He'd said, "Here," and handed me the pen back. I'd said, "Thanks" and he'd said, "No problem" and I turned to walk off.

But he'd stopped me. His hand was on my shoulder again. I shivered, and he felt it, so he pulled back.

"I'm Tom," he told me. My entire stomach was fluttering. I didn't know how to process it. I couldn't even form coherent sentences.

"Freddie."

I smiled. But it was awkward. I was awkward. I just stared at him, silent, like a complete moron. What was I supposed to say, that I'd noticed him before and I kept a creepy stalker page in the back of my notebook dedicated solely to him and his comings and his goings and his everything?

No. I couldn't exactly do that.

"Is there... something you, uhm, something you wanted, or?"

"No! No. I just. I thought I'd just say thanks for, you know, lending me the pen."

"You can keep it, uhm, if you want," I offered. "I have more. Sorry it was red ink though. Red ink pens are kind of useless, I guess."

"Can I? Thanks." I gave it back over to him. Who needed a red ink pen anyway? Useless.

"I'll see you around, then," I'd replied awkwardly, like the awkward little thing that I was.

I'd heard him mutter a goodbye and I'd turned and he was gone and the moment was ruined yet again and it was all my stupid fault. Yet. Again.

I should have realised by the way my eyes caught hold of him whenever he was around, or by the way he made my heart race whenever I saw him, and by the way I would almost faint whenever he touched or spoke to me, that I had a crush on him. But I'd never crushed on anyone before, I didn't know what it was like. I didn't know that it was like him. Like Tom. Even his name made me soft, like the melted gummy bears you forgot about in your pocket on a sweltering summer day.

We didn't speak much after that.

Weeks went by and eventually I stopped trying to bump into him and I stopped looking out for him. But when our eyes caught in the hallway, he'd smile, and I'd smile too, for some stupid reason that I can't really remember. Because he was nice, because I was nice, because I did one decent thing for him that we both probably should have forgotten, or because, for a long time, he was something special to me.

It was a regular day, the day something beyond unusual happened. I'd sat at my desk in maths and he'd sat in his seat behind me, making little noise. We didn't really notice each-other, or I was trying really hard to pretend I didn't notice him. When the teacher had set us equations and left the room to grab a quick cup of tea from the staff-room, something hit me in the head.

I turned, trying not to look at him, and by my foot, there was a scrumpled up piece of paper. I surveyed the room, but no one caught my eye, not even Tom, so I'd picked it up and I'd crumpled it open.

I like you. Do you like me?

Yes. ☐ No. ☐

I looked around again. No one paid me any attention. But there was something about the note. Something that made my heart thump again in my chest like it hadn't in weeks, something that made a wave of tingles scatter across my body like I hadn't felt since his touch.

It was written in red ink.