I'd never really processed just how much my life was set to change after I'd left school. I suppose five years of sitting through the same classes with the same people all day five days a week does make it hard to acknowledge that one day, you will sit your exams, go to prom, and then never look back. You get a job, start earning money, then before you know it, you're moving out of your childhood home. You get your own place, and even though it's just some shitty flat in central London, it's your shitty flat in central London, and you're proud of it. You try your best to keep in touch with old friends, but eventually there will come a day where you get a new phone, and while you're transferring all of the contacts from your old one, you forget to add a few numbers; the numbers of people you once saw every day, but now only speak to on Christmas and birthdays. If you can even remember the latter.
You grow up, and enter the world as an adult. It's bittersweet, but time marches on, and your life as you knew it begins to shape into something else entirely.
This was the truth I had to deal with. I left school, and enrolled in college, then in the blink of an eye, I was graduating university with an English Language degree and buying my own place two hundred miles away from my parents. I stopped speaking to friends from school, and I began living my new life.
Which leads me up to now. I sit at the kitchen table in my tiny flat, sighing as a headache begins to form behind my eyes. I stare blankly at the screen of my ancient laptop, silently willing the words to write themselves. I'd never managed to do much with my English degree, and now I sit here with a job at a tabloid newspaper that I secretly hate, wishing I could move on to bigger and better things. Instead of publishing gripping romance novels for the masses to read and love, I spend my time writing about music and celebrities and sports and things I really couldn't give any lesser shits about. It's my only source of income, however, so there isn't much I can do. I barely constitute as a journalist, even though that is supposedly my job title.
I would write those gripping romance novels, but the prospect of sharing my prose with anyone, even my closest family and friends, fills me with such terror that I can't bring myself to send an email to the publisher's office, like I've been planning on doing for months now. Every time I hover the cursor over the 'Send' button, I freeze with horror and close out of the tab. It's sort of like stage fright but for nerds.
Anyway. I groan out loud and close my laptop down, knowing I'll regret not doing the work now. Later, when my editor's breathing down my neck, I'll really wish I had just pushed myself to write the article I'd been asked to complete last week, but right now, I need a break. I get to my feet, not bothering to put my laptop or notebook away properly. I stretch my arms behind my back, my bones clicking in a way that is slightly alarming. I let out a breath and amble over to the door of my flat, grabbing my coat from the hook on the wall. I shove my feet into my lace-up boots and grab my key from the side cabinet. I swing the door open and lock it behind me and make my way down the hall, to the lift on the other end of the corridor. I double-check that I have my phone and my bank card, then enter the lift and press the 'Ground' button.
I leave the block of flats and cross the road, my feet subconsciously carrying me towards the coffee shop on the corner that I frequently visit. I enter the small, cosy shop, smiling softly at the gentle scent of coffee beans and spiced syrups hit my nose. The shop is warm, and I already feel more at ease as I approach the counter. I give my order, then wait for my drink to be made. I quickly pay for it and bring it to one of the tables in the corner, near another table where a tall guy with fluffy brown hair and circular glasses sits, long legs stretched out and a book in his hand. I don't catch much of his face, as his nose is buried in the book (it appears to be a notebook of some sort, but I can't really tell), but he seems to have nice taste- he wears a cable-knit sweater with black pants, and his black rain-coat hangs over his chair. I glance away as I sit down, pulling out my phone. I scroll mindlessly through Twitter, and I actively feel my brain becoming numb as my eyes skim over the latest celebrity drama that I'm undoubtedly going to be asked to write about within the next week. I sip my coffee absently, idly wondering why I pay so much for it every day when my income isn't exactly as disposable as I'd like to believe. I push the thought away, allowing myself to just enjoy my regular spiced latte, because you only live once, right? So what if I go bankrupt over coffee? I'm going to die one day, anyway. It won't matter then, will it?
I almost jump when I get a notification from my closest friend, Angelica. (She often goes by Angel to those closest to her, which is ironic, considering she is anything but). I open the message, and I don't know whether to be disappointed or amused at the image she's sent. It's some stupid meme she probably got from Tiktok, and I roll my eyes fondly as I type my response. 'What the fuck. Weirdo.' Her response is simply dripping with disdain, and I laugh softly under my breath. After a moment's hesitation, I ask her if she wants to meet up. Her reply is immediate: 'Of course.' I tell her where I am, and she promises to be here in ten minutes, tops. I know it will take her at least twenty, but I let myself believe her as I order her a drink.
It does indeed take her around twenty minutes to arrive, and she collapses into the chair opposite me. "You got me a drink." Is all she says as she gulps down at least half of the coffee.
"I did. I owed you off last week." I shrug, taking in my best friend's features. Her hair is a wild mess of caramel-coloured curls, matching her light brown skin. Her almost-jasmine eyes are bright, as always, and her full lips are set in a smirk.
"Oh, so it's not from the kindness of your heart then. I see how it is." She rests her chin in her hands, her bright eyes meeting mine. "How you doing, anyway? You still on that magazine shit?"
"Yes, I am still on that magazine shit. Unfortunately." I sigh softly as I drain my glass. "What about you? Still living off your dad?"
She snorts. "Nah. He made me get a job. Bullshit, if you ask me."
"No way you have a job." I gape at her. "What is it?"
"I work in a music studio now. Producing, and shit. It's actually quite fun. Plus I get money for it, so." She huffs out a laugh.
"Well, glad to know one of us is enjoying their job." I laugh, then add, "So, when did you start this?"
"About a month ago. I think I forgot to tell you." Angel's always been like this, ever since school. She's the only person I kept contact with from school, and never once has she changed. God, her whole house could burn down and she'd forget to tell me. I suppose she just assumes I already know, on some sort of spiritual level, everything that's happening in her life in real time.
"Of course." I roll my eyes fondly.
"We had a band in, last week. Lovejoy, they said their name was. The music they were making is pretty good, actually. The sort of thing you'd enjoy." She hums softly. "Yeah, and they're doing a show soon. You should go. You need a break, anyway."
"Hm. Maybe, I'll think about it." I fall silent for a moment, the name of the band ringing a bell. Lovejoy...
"Promise me you'll go. You overwork yourself, and you're clearly sick of your job." Angel stares at me intently, her gaze piercing, and I find myself nodding.
"Okay, okay, I'll go. What did you say the name of the band was again?" I pull up my notes app so I can write a reminder in my phone to buy tickets and research the band.
"Lovejoy." Angel supplies as I type it into my phone.
"I feel like I've heard that name somewhere..." I trail off as I search my mind. I catch glimpses of dining tables and empty word documents, of frustrated sighs and coffee shop visits. What was the article I was supposed to be writing about again? Some up-and-coming internet band? "I think I'm meant to be writing an article on them and interviewing them."
"Oh my God, then going to the show is the perfect opportunity!" Angel grins widely at me. The fluffy-haired guy gets to his feet, but I don't watch him leave and instead turn my eyes back to Angel.
"Sure." I smile back, allowing myself the slightest bit of excitement that I'll get to see a concert and get some work done in the same night. Maybe a tabloid magazine isn't so bad after all.
Even after eight years of not being a secondary school student, my lack of work ethic has always remained the same. I shamelessly went straight to my bedroom after re-entering my flat and pulled up my favourite film on my laptop instead of doing any sort of work. I can feel my old teachers looking down on me, even from here. I shrug off the guilt and get comfortable in my pyjamas, and even take the liberty to make myself a hot chocolate while I burrow under the many blankets of my warm, comfy bed. So what if I have a night off? It's not like I do it every we- oh, wait, I do. Whoops.
After the film has ended, I pull up Lovejoy's website, searching for tickets to their show. I find the show nearest to me and quickly buy myself a ticket,satisfied with myself; this counts as work. I'm going to the show to interview the band I'd been asked to interview. Buying tickets counts as working. Or at least preparing to work. I'm telling myself this now so that when I fall asleep later with my laptop still open on my lap, I can feel a little less bad about it.
I give a few of their songs a listen, and I find that Angel, as usual, was correct; it is the sort of stuff I enjoy. I fall asleep to one of them named 'Taunt,' and I feel a strange sense of warmth as I slip into the land of dreams.
ČTEŠ
Taunt (Remember Way Back Then In School?)
FanfikceY/N and Wilbur go way back, all the way to secondary school, where they were very good friends and maybe even something more. However, growing up means growing apart, and the two soon forgot about each other. But what happens when Y/N happens to stu...
