Fringe Check (phan)

C

Guys I need more reads, I'm not getting any reads help me what's the world doing why isn't everyone reading my story.

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Cogitation (n) Concerted thought or reflection

Phil told me to meet up at his studio. Well, also known as his apartment.

I knocked on the blue door, and yes, the building he lived in was very grand and looked like a place the queen probably owned.

The door opened, but it wasn't Phil who was at the door. It was another man. He looked like Phil, but looked older and was a little less pale than Phil.

"Um-"

He smiled. "I'm Martyn, Phil's brother. He's in his room."

"Oh."

Phil's room was huge. And it was covered in painting of plants and beaches and people. There were canvases all over the floor and old rock songs played loudly. Phil was there, in the mess, wearing a white shirt and black jeans. He was hunched over a desk, his head bobbing in time with the music.

I inhaled, the strong smell of paint making my brain fluffy.

"Hey." I said, awkwardly.

He jumped spinning around and almost falling in the process. He laughed, straightening his glasses. Damn, he wears glasses? Well, they really look good on him.

"Hi Dan." He smiled. "Come on. Do you want to get started?"

"What? We're starting today?" I said, nerves tickling my throat like they wanted to crawl out.

He nodded. "Unless you don't want to."

"I-I'm-I'm not really dressed for being p-painted."

He patted a stool next to him. "You look great Dan. Perfect even. That shirt suites you."

I felt heat rush into my cheeks. "Oh...OK." I breathed, sitting on the stool.

It was a bit uncomfortable but I wasn't going to tell him that.

Phil smiled, tossing him a black notebook and a pen. It was a parker fountain pen.

I looked up at him confused.

"Just do what you do best. Write some poetry. Write a story. Just write anything, anything at all."

"W-what? Why?"

"So I can paint you." He smiled, making feel stupid. Obviously he will. Why else would he tell you to write? Its not as if anyone wants to read it.

My cheeks felt even hotter and I began writing.

It was hard at first, with Phil watching and everything, but he didn't say anything, and the fact that he had good taste in music calmed me down. And then I got lost in words.

"Dan?" There was a tap on my shoulder. "Dan?"

My head snapped up, and my breathing slowed and my heart sped up when our eyes connected.

"Dan, are you ok?"

"Yeah." I managed, looking back down.

"Hey, the paintings done. You don't need to write anymore."