16 | on her desk in history

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| 16 |

What happened when a guy shoplifted a calendar? He got twelve months.

"-A MISTAKE. SURELY he can't mean that, right? It wasn't a mistake to me, a kiss isn't a mistake. You can't just kiss someone and say that it was just for the heck of it!" She was panting, nearly out of breath.

"Mmmhm."

"And it's like he doesn't even care what I think about it, he just went ahead and declared it a mistake. I was gonna tell him, I was going to tell him I liked him but then that happened and I'm not sure about him right now. God, he makes me so frustrated, I can't even think right."

"Yup."

"Does he like me, does he hate me, did he like the kiss, is he just saying it was a mistake because he wants us to stay friends? Why did he actually kiss me, did he do it because he likes me? Or maybe he did it because-"

"Charlotte, calm down," Shane groaned over the phone. "I have no idea. To anything you just said. I don't know. Why don't you just, oh, I don't know, ask him?"

Charlotte rolled onto her stomach and pressed her face deep into her thin pillow. "I..."

"You what?"

"I... can't," she mumbled, sinking deeper into the pillow. Charlie inhaled deeply and crossed her legs in the air, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Why not?" he sighed.

"Because... I'm-I'm not good at that stuff. Talking. I'm liable to end up crying or something. Or fainting again."

"Charlotte, he probably feels the same thing with you. I know Theodore, he's antisocial and unsure of how to make small talk without stuttering," Shane said tiredly with a sigh.

Charlie blinked. "Really?"

Theodore seemed so smooth with his charming personality and his quick jokes and snappy pickup lines. There was no way he was nervous talking to her.

"I'll talk to you later Charlotte, maybe I'll give you some tips on how to be smooth or something. Maybe I'll help you prepare for a conversation with Theodore."

"That's be great, thanks Shane," she smiled.

"I'll swing by later," he said, a rustling sound on his line. "Gotta go, talk to you later."

He hung up.

Charlotte doesn't know how long she lay on her too-small bed, holding her iPhone loosely in her hand beside her right ear, laying face-first into her pillow. She hated this. She hated how she had to go to friends for advice on a guy. She hated how a guy was making her feel sick, or queasy, or... She didn't know, her stomach felt all topsy-turvy and sloshy and like wild animals were running and sliding around in there. She hated how she didn't know what to do or what she was feeling or how he was doing this to her.

She needed to get this out, out of her system, away, away, away, away.

Rolling out of her twin sized bed, Charlotte curiously walked over to her desk where a spiral notebook sat.

Skylar did this. She wrote out her feelings.

Charlie used to do this. She had diaries left and right, soaking each page with rants and tears and insecurities. They helped, that's for sure.

She searched her desk drawers for a pencil and found one on the top left. She frowned at the notebook the whole walk back to her bed.

Charlotte sat cross-legged. Opened the notebook. Bit her lip.

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