𝙲𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝙼𝚎! -𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚇 (𝙵) 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

Is This Seat Taken?

It was 3am. The public library was still open and you were one of the last 20 people sitting in it.

"I really should get home— but, I have studies to finish before I can turn in my report," You sighed as you put your head on your desk. You began to sing the intro of  'she calls me daddy' by KiNG MALA' to yourself.

You then began to tap the beat of the song on the desk with your pencil and sing a little bit louder. You checked twice to see if anybody was looking at you. Nobody... you continued.

"She plays with the boys; but she comes home to me~" you sang under your breath trying to make sure nobody heard you. The guitar solo was tattooed to your brain. You pretended to play the air guitar while switching to playing the beat with the stomp of your feet.

You kept performing in your own world when you heard the monotone voice of a lady come from behind you.

"Uh, hello?" she said with a concerned voice. This caused you to turn around and focus your attention to her. She was wearing a baggy black shirt, a skirt, black knee high boots, and chains around her neck. She was holding what appeared to be greek mythology books and she had her brows furrowed.

You didn't notice you were staring until she called you out for it, "Is there something on my face?" She placed her left hand on her lips and tried to rub off whatever non-existent crumbs were on her face.

"No, No! There is nothing on your face. I am just tired and I have the attention span of a flea," you giggled awkwardly obviously embarrassed.

She didn't giggle— she just waited until you finished laughing.

"Is the seat next to you taken? I need to study somewhere and all of the other seats in the library are dirty from people earlier today. I'm guessing the custodians neglected their jobs. Very disappointed since this is a very well known library, and I heard they payed well." She continued in her monotone voice.

You looked at the seat next to you then looked back at her. "It's yours." You whisper with a smile on your face.

She shows little to no emotion and quickly takes her seat.

"She must be fun at parties... yikes," you thought with sarcasm.

The next 30 minutes we're filled with nothing but pain-staking silence. The clock on the wall began to annoy you and you were just about tired of the silence this girl was able to handle.

"So... uh. What's your name?" You blurted out.

"Mikasa. Mikasa Ackermann." She replied back without removing her gaze from her book. She didn't seem to be reading at all. She just looked at a line and took notes.

"Mine is Y/N. Y/N L/N." you said cheerfully, trying to make eye contact with her, she kept her gaze on her book and notes.

"How um, how old are you?" You felt like a stalker, but you'd much rather make awkward conversation than sit in silence. You answered first to assure her that you weren't just trying to collect information on her. "I'm 21. I'm a journalist." You said proudly.

Mikasa looked up at you quickly. "That's why your name was familiar. I read your blogs and i've seen you on the cover of some magazines," she paused, "I'm 20."

Your face began to heat up and your heart began to beat fast. You were nervous and scared. You have never been good with speaking to people— you always try the awkward conversation thing— and 98% of the time it ends in nobody responding and you sitting there in a shower of embarrassment. Now that the attention was focused on you, you felt as if you had to explain your life story. No, that would be narcissistic of you. Ask her more questions about herself. No not that, that's creepy. Maybe you should-

"I don't like your articles." She said in a very blunt voice.

You felt a pan in your heart. Your articles were your children. You loved them with everything you had and you always put 100% of your effort into them.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Can I get a reason why? I love critique on how to better my writing and other things like that!" You said in your 'I'm fine, this is fine, you totally didn't just insult an artist's artwork' voice.

"They are missing— what's that term— a hook." She began to look in her bag [ you hadn't seen it before] and file through multiple binders. She pulled out a sheet of notebook paper with the title 'PosterPillow' at the top. That was your writers name, your comfort name, your artist name. She had a full sheet on things that you should fix and what/who you work well with.

"Oh?" You said obviously confused.

"I'm a critique. I write articles on different artists, their strong attributes, as-well as their not-so-strong attributes. You were one of the first people I wrote about, because I haven't liked your articles since I was in my high-schools' newspaper club. And even then, I didn't like them that much. Articles about an artists' life are supposed to hold weight to them, yours don't hold any. You have stated multiple times that you are trying your best to put your name out there, well you haven't succeeded at all. I only figured-out you existed because you showed up on my reddit recommendations." She started mumbling more hurtful things.

"Damn lady, you really don't like me." You said shocked.

"No, I love you. You're an amazing person. But your writing isn't." She picked up her belongings and put them into her backpack. After she was collected. She got out of her seat, pushed it back into the desk, and walked off.

"Yep, she is definitely fun at parties." You muttered sarcastically.