Imagine 45: Calum Thomas Hood (Flashdrive)
Your footsteps seemed almost magnified as you neared the library doors, the sound of the squeaking of your shoes hitting against the glossy tiling making you cringe.
To pass Computer Science, everyone was required to create a technical algorithm, and while this subject wasn't particularly easy for you, you'd decided to get a head start.
You slipped a hand into your hoodie pocket, twiddling your small flashdrive between your fingertips as you entered the cold, air conditioned library.
The strong scent of artificial lime immediately filled your nostrils, making you crinkle your nose in distaste.
No matter, all you're here to do is get started on your requirement.
You sat at your usual computer spot, a hint of a smile on your lips as you remembered the countless lunch breaks you spent cooped up in here, typing and scrolling away aimlessly to pass the time, only to realize you're five minutes late to your next class.
You move to get the flashdrive out of your pocket, only to frown when you see a flash drive already in the port. And it definitely wasn't yours.
Who'd be careless enough to leave this here? And why hasn't the librarian seen it?
You check the librarian's table, only to see it empty.
No wonder.
You sit there in the silence, the air conditioner making rumbling noises.
You couldn't just move to another station, all your class files were saved here and it was against the professor's rules to transfer to another student's station. But you couldn't leave it in for someone to find either, it was the only port.
Might as well at least try to find out whoever owned it.
You put your hand on the mouse and click on the flashdrive's icon labelled 'my usb', shaking your head.
A USB was what you called the port, a flashdrive is the thing itself. It wasn't that confusing.
The window suddenly fills up with folders, all labelled in lowercase and random letters. You scroll, opening documents and photos, hoping for at least a clue leading to whoever owned the drive.
You recognize one folder titled as one of Green Day's older albums, making you smile in appreciation, only for the smile to morph into a look of disgust as a porno gif loads on the screen.
At least now you know that whoever owns this is a guy.
You close the picture quickly, your face burning a light pink as you open a document.
To your surprise, hundreds of pages in the document load, a curious title printed right on the first page, a short author's note typed up beneath it.
You zoomed in on the text, reading every line and paragraph carefully, slowly getting pulled into the fictional world of the story written on the digital pages.
The Computer Science algorithm slowly slipped your mind as you scrolled down, absorbed in the characters and every single event happening in those pages.
Before you knew it, hours had passed and you were reading the last line, three initials ending the story, and the document.
'c.t.h.'
Was this who wrote the entire story? Was this the flashdrive's owner?
You tilted your head, silently clapping to yourself as you sighed, being completely speechless.
You couldn't believe someone, quite possibly your age, wrote a masterpiece like that. It was almost offensive that it wasn't on bookstore shelves.
The loud bang of the door echoed throughout the library, students turned their heads to the source of the sudden noise, you being among them.
A tanned, curly haired boy was looking around almost frantically, before his eyes landed on you and your station, a panicked expression forming on his face as he drew closer.
"I, think, you," he huffed, his cheeks a tint of red, "have, something that's, mine."
You stared back at him, wide eyed.
Was this 'c.t.h.'?