Heartstrings Intertwined ♡ Felix x f.reader

CH2 ♡ A poem and a roommate

She turned around to the door and stepped towards it. Slowly opening the old wood and going into the hallway of the small apartment. She went past the door of her roommate, some random guy that took her in for paying less rent, and entered the kitchen-living room combination. A few dirty plates were scattered among the counters along with a few glasses. She opened one of the shelves, took out one and filled it with cold water at the sink.

After a few sips, she refilled the glass and slowly took it back to her room, grabbing a chocolate bar on the way. With a shut of the door behind her Y/n placed the glass next to her notebook and ripped open the packaging of the chocolate bar, devouring the snack in only a few seconds. Back to poem writing!

The idea of You are my cloud was a good start. Not ideal, but a step forward. She could change cloud to house making the line You are my house. It would be weird to say You are my home, but it would rhyme, make sense, and maybe sound strange, but it could work. She struck through the initial verse and replaced it.

Everyday when you work
My heart pounds loud
I can’t stop to lurk
You are my house.

It sounded weird, strange, absurd. I hate poetry. Maybe she should keep it just like this. Just accept whatever that last verse was and embrace the imperfections it caused in the rhyming mess. I want to get out.

Wait… It rhymed and it would give the poem a sort of sad vibe. It could mean that the lyrical I wanted to confess, or were trapped in their shyness. She let it go on her tongue again. I… want… to… get… out…
She crossed through the last verse and wrote down the new verse. The former was weird anyway.

Everyday when you work
My heart pounds loud
I can’t stop to lurk
I want to get out.

She smiled at her notebook. Great! But that feeling was soon to be gone when she tapped her pencil repeatedly on the desk again. Before she could cause herself any more headaches from that thing, she decided to continue writing the last eight ones. Or she thought until the pain of no ideas started to slowly infect her mind. She took a sip of water from her glass and hoped to find inspiration in the flowers she got gifted, her notebook she had since ages and on the world wide web. Yet these tries didn't really give her any idea at all.

It wasn't like she didn't find anything, but it sorta didn't suit her vision for the poem that was slowly forming. Some of the things felt too artificial, too fake, too fictional and maybe even a bit too out of character for the protagonist of her piece of literature in making. Or just that an important part was missing. The too utopic date ideas aside, how would they confess to someone they only knew as a co-worker. Even though Y/n had a few partners in her life already, she gladly had the luck that she knew them beforehand and could easily confess to them. But the more she thought about a way of confession for the person in her poem, the more she realised that she had no clue at all on how that could work for someone who didn't have that fortune.

She let her head fall onto her notes and scribblings. Maybe she just needed a short break so her brain could refuel itself. Y/n closed her eyes in a slow motion and imagined the characters of her poem. How someone always watches the person and raves about them and how they never had the courage to come to them and confess their feelings. Splatter. She just imagined the countless days the two worked together, how they always admired the person from afar. Crash. Maybe, the someone tried to write love letters, but thought that was childish? Maybe they wanted to gift chocolate or flowers to their loved one during Valentine's? Groan.

Huff

Silence.

Scream

Y/n raised her head.