l u k e

It's been two weeks since Eleanor last spoke to me. Or tried to. And I remind myself each passing day how much I hate myself for not being able to explain myself to her.

And a floating thought comes to mind again: What if she accepts me for who I am?

It's the only thought I cling onto whenever I think of her. But I'd hate to see pity along with her acceptance. I'd just hate it and hate myself even more. But I can't just sit around every day, painting her face on my sketch pad, and not make a move to pursue a friendship with her.

So today, I'm going to talk to her.

Well, um, communicate with her.

But I don't exactly know how, so I go to the only guy who knows what the hell he's doing with his life.


How will I talk to her? I write on my notebook.

"Like this," Mr. Dixon replies. It's easier than done, really.

But it's haaaaaaaaard, I lazily write.

"Wait, you paint, right? Try communicating with her through your artistry. Draw some things and drop it by her locker, or personally hand it to her. I'm sure she'll appreciate that," he replies with a wide grin.

I nod slowly and think about his proposal. What if she thinks it's creepy?

"She won't. She already made the move to talk to you, might as well return the favour." Mr. Dixon sits on the chair next to me and gently pats my shoulder in a fatherly manner.

Yes, she made a move. She practically urged me to talk. But, Eleanor was a girl who's not used to not being replied back to; it's possible that she was just being polite, even if the person she's conversing with refuses to participate. And that's the beautiful thing about her—she doesn't give up too easily.

She was just being polite. I don't think she talked to me because she has real interest in me, I write and hang my head back exasperatedly.

"Luke, she used words on you. She sat next to you. She walked the distance between her lunch table and your depressing little tree just to talk to you. Don't you think that shows that she has maybe even little interest in you?" Dixon says matter-of-factly.

I chew the inside of my cheek in uncertainty. Fine, I write. Then I walk out the classroom.

✿ e l e a n o r ✿

Ashton is being stupid again. He's bouncing into the lockers, earning glares from the people who own them, then bumps into me and continues maniacally laughing. It's infuriating and humiliating, and I'm the one who apologizes to the people on Ashton's behalf.

"God damn it, Ash, can you please behave yourself?" I scold, but can't help but laugh at his idiocy. This is the exact reason why he's my best friend out of all people—he's a little crazy, and everybody needs a little crazy.

"Rockstars are reckless," he sings, completely consumed by the fact that he was a rockstar just because he laid a few beats and made the classroom sing together in physics.

I giggle and hold him by his collar. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

Ashton breaks free and continues running around the hallway. Then, after a while of me shouting at him to slow down, the crowd oooo's and I rush over to see who Ashton victimized.


"Oh god, I'm sorry. Ashton god damn it, say sorry," I ramble, holding out a hand to help Larry stand up.

He stares at my hand for a noticeable second before grabbing it and hauling himself up on his feet. He doesn't say thanks; he doesn't even say anything.

"Not even a fucking thank you?" Ashton deadpans. I grab his wrist and tug on it to make him follow me. He sends Larry one last glare before rolling his eyes and walking with me.


short af but yeah so is your mom's penis


actually that didnt make any sense but idc im updating the next chapter wowowowowowow but damn im having a severe case of writer's block atm. 

hey if i wrote a mystery fanfic would you guys read it? :——-)

this author's note is all over the place and probably longer than the actual chapter i apologize


peace out bye luv u -angelika

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