She used to love him...
Before the dance. She'd wave to him in the hallways. Her pink skirt flailing as she passed me by my home room class. Her heavy boots colliding as she left the corridor for the next. James' eyes never left her glimmering essence.
But never again. He'd never again let himself fall for something something so imperfect, a situation so unsure that it seemed laughable to assume it's be successful.
He now knew better.
The class he sat in was an indefinite break of time. James was an artist by trade. His small doodles and sketches were what kept him moving. He'd put every disappointment. Every issue, every solution and solace occasion into a miniature masterpiece.
Everything he knew was a travesty. His mother always ever the conversationalist has spieled me into a rotten mode.
The pencil in his hand laid waste to his anxiety and depression, every stroke of his Lead tip fluxing fluidly against his small sketch book.
Forged every emotion into another perplexed diversion of emotion.
Then it happened...a girl he'd never seen. A newcomer to the ranks of James collections of dilutive proportions that caressed each page he etched.
He knew...a new conquest..a known feeling reverberating in his heart flawlessly brushing against him and his new found feeling.
James had done it...He'd found the sensation of new found love...