cliché: a song about us

you look like the sun

...

"You look like the sun."

"I know I'm hot."

"That and there are days in which you just shine."

"Ohhh.. you so wanna kiss me dude."

...

Win bit his thumb and scribbled circles on his notebook, boredom apparent on his face. Time moves ever so slowly while in class, especially so when the subject doesn't interest him at all like right now with sociology and anthropology. He rubs his earlobes then glides his hand to the back of his head, gives his hair a few tugs before pressing his nape hard.

'Pretty.' He stilled, stared at the front then gave the room a once over. The voice he heard was mellow as if stunned by what he sees. His gaze flits back to his senior male professor at the front and his pink-haired classmate, currently reading off a phrase from her tablet. His professor had a fond gaze and a small smile on his face. He looked at the backs of the man on the girl's left and the girl on her right, donned in a cream-colored hijab. Creep, he thought.

Win snorted and continued drawing circles, quite sure that if he could pick up the circles he drew and stacked them, a tornado sketch would be produced; quiet fitting to his state of mind. He rests his face on his hand, making sure his ear is covered and scratches the lines.

'So so so so so, come on say your 50th so, baldie.'

'Why the hell does my feet itch? I changed my socks, the fuck?'

'... Sex- food porn, but without the food!'

'What did he say? The who'

'Ugh, I'm hungry.'

He held the pen tighter, drawing more forcefully on his notebook. Breathe, he told himself. Breathe, he forcefully does. He continued sketching roughly, each line darker than the last. He only stopped when his pen tore the page, leaving a half-drawn circle on the next page.

"Fucking elective." He murmured while smoothing out the paper with his index finger, attention fixed on the rough imprint, a blot of ink forming on his finger as he traced from up to down.

Despite having to hear voices not of his own inside his head for more than a decade, Win never got used to it. It often overwhelmed him as a kid, and made him feel cool about himself as a teen when he considered the power a gift and that he must have been an unpolished superhero. Unlike Marvel (or was it DC heroes?), no secret teacher for gifted students showed up at his door. And now as an adult, Win sees it as a source of stress (except for certain moments during examination and or recitation periods).

'Only 2 minutes, fuck!'

'Let us goooooo, come on!'

'Should I cut my next class?'

Win closed his notebook, pulled his bag on the floor, and shoved it inside along with the pen. He spares the professor a glance and pats the bag on his lap.

"No one's interested geez." He bit his thumb again and stood hastily after dismissal was announced. Win brisk-walks, mumbling sorry under his breath each time he bumps into someone. He surveys the students, squinting his eyes at a waving figure on the far-end of the hallway who's currently running towards him.

"Metawin! Win! Win!" Win clutches Pluem's shoulders to keep the man from colliding into him, "Don't rush, dumb head." Win says. Pluem crossed his arms to his chest, gripping Win's hands on his shoulders. He fluttered his eyes and wink at his friend, "Dumb head?" He starts off in a higher pitch, index finger caressing Win's thumb "is that our new call sign poobear?"