bleached bones and pinned butterflies

i'm not obsessed (you totally are)

The more she bikes, the more she pumps her legs to pedal, the more the tension leaves her. The more her jittery energy leaves her body and leaving her relaxed, her mind clearing up. She's no Owen Knight, who 'understands' the wind, but what she does understand is the way he finds comfort in riding. The way the wind tugs at her hair, the pleasant exertion of pedaling, and their surroundings reduced to a blur. It was freeing, in a way; nothing else mattered at that moment, just her, her bike, and the road stretching out in front of her. 

It was these moments that Noah fought to have. It made everything worth it. 

So Noah let herself be lost to the repetitive motions of biking, turning this way, turning that way. Stop, go, pause because there are pedestrians, pause to take a drink. The day is pleasant enough, bright without being too hot and clear skies. If Noah doesn't think too hard, she would forget her horrible mood and the cause of it. 

But as she pulls up to a cafe to grab a cup of coffee and muffin, the worries she forgot comes back full force. She was distracted enough that ordering was a little more annoying than usual, what with the addition of language barrier, but whatever. She got it in the end. 

And as Noah takes a seat on one of the outside tables, Noah nibbles on her knuckle as she stares at the new number saved in her phone. Cold Eyes' number, given to her by that weirdo with the yellow glasses. Obviously, the guy wanted her to contact his friend - for what, Noah has no clue - but now that she has free time she- 

She has no clue what she should do. 

Oh she still wants to race the guy, prove to him who's the real deal but- 

Does she just text him? Call him up? Does the guy even know Noah has his number? So many questions, and not a single answer. Fuck. 

Noah takes a sip of her coffee in an attempt to calm her nerves, before she taps the message button and types of a text. 

> [i still think we should race] 

... Not... Not the best of first messages but then again Noah doesn't want friendly. Doesn't want to be all buddy-buddy with an asshole like Cold Eyes. She wants to beat him, want to make him eat her dust as she races in front of him. 

She doesn't wanna be friendly. 

But Noah still hesitates, thumb hovering over the send button, before she decides 'fuck it' and taps it. 

No guts, no glory. Death before dishonor. The latter is literally her tattoo, even, stamped right in front of her right thigh; big and bold with crisp lines and rich colors. Come on Noah Brookes; you're a fighter, why are you pussy-footing around, acting all scared and hesitant? You're a strong woman, you're fucking cream of the crop. 

Even then, even with her little pep talk with herself, Noah hastily shoves her phone back into the pocket of her sweater, nervously bouncing her leg as she takes a long drink. The caffeine is probably not helping her nerves - which is, why is she even nervous??? - but she needs something to do and the nearest thing happens to be the americano in her hand. 

If Noah jolted in her seat when her phone pings, no she didn't. Really, she's not that nervous. 

> [How did you get my number?]

Oh wow. Rude from the get go? No wonder Noah got such bad vibes from Cold Eyes from the start. He's just as bad as Korean Fucker, if not worse. 

Noah clicks her tongue irritably as she types up a reply. 

< [your friend with the yellow glasses gave them to me.] 

> [Well, delete it? I don't talk to strangers.]