"Say hi to the interwebs Ana!"
"No, fuck off, I'm trying to read." I roll my eyes and poke my tongue out at my best friend, my eyes falling back down to my book.
I hear her footsteps get closer, and I sigh dramatically.
"Yes?" I ask impatiently.
"What are you even reading anyway? That's a huge book." Lexi mutters, zooming the small black camera in onto the cover of my book.
"Jesus fucking Christ Lex, its Harry Potter! Who even are you?" I gasp, astonished.
"Oh, so you're reading it for what, the.... thousandth time?" she grins cheekily, wincing when I swat her with my hard covered book.
"That's what you get for making fun of Harry." I sing in an awful impression of Hayley Williams.
She just rolls her eyes and walks away, laughing.
Alexis and I have lived together since we were 19 years old. We both graduated at different colleges and moved to London from completely different areas of England, and somehow ended up meeting and being like 'whatever let's just fucking live together', which is pretty much why we're still friends today. Lexi is a YouTuber, and has about 100,000 subscribers, which is insane. I'm not a YouTuber, but I almost am since I'm in most of her videos anyway (usually just swearing at the screen, but still). She is in university, majoring in Neuroscience (which basically means she's super smart-unlike me), and despite the amount of work she does, is still one of the calmest people I know. It's why we're good for each other. She's calm, I'm stressed and anxious. She's extroverted, I'm introverted. She's happy, I'm... well, I don't know what I am. But the point is, we balance each other out. We're very different, but we get along so well that I can't even imagine getting along with anyone better.
"Bye, I'm going to uni!" I hear Lexi yell from the front of the apartment. "Do something productive, okay?"
"Whatever." I groan, pulling the warm covers over my head.
I just can't be bothered.
Although, I do have uni today so I guess I have to be bothered.
I groan again, and slowly pull myself up and walk to the kitchen to make my tea.
I am so not a morning person.
Once I have had my 2 cups of tea- because I am literally the most British person ever- I check my phone, realise I have 20 minutes to get ready, and panic.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, where the fuck is my fucking art folder, fuck.
This is an average morning for me, I never manage to actually be organised or get ready on time, no matter how many times I remind myself or how many New Years resolutions I set myself.
I take a 5 minute shower, throw on an outfit of a sweater, jeans and boots, quickly flick some eyeliner on, then decide there's no time to even attempt to tame my hair, so I just leave it loose, grab my bag and run out the door, hoping desperately to catch the tube in time.
Who fucking cares about appearance, anyway? It's so irrelevant in the grand scheme of the world, in the big picture of things. Does anything matter? Pretty much everything humans do is irrelevant, but we all obliviously carry on with our daily school-college-work till you die concept, never once stopping to wonder.... why?
It's whatever. (which is my response to anything that I don't want to start talking about but actually means everything to me)
I get off the tube just outside the University of the London and run into the lecture hall not even 10 seconds before the professor does.
First day. What will it bring, I wonder? I'm majoring in Photography Journalism (honestly I didn't even know that was a course) and Fine Arts. I know nothing about my teachers or the syllabus, all I know is I liked the classes and I was good at them. Hopefully there wouldn't be too much socialising or participating in class. I'm not good with people.
"Sit down." I hear a low growl behind me and jump.
Forgot where I was for a second.
I carefully survey my surroundings, unsure of where to sit. This is always a problem. There are 3 empty seats. There is one inbetween a girl and a guy, who have used the desk to dump their bags on it. There is another next to a girl who is glaring at me and filing her nails. Not a good combination (I've learned from past experience). The last seat is next to a tall, gangly boy with brown hair, wearing all black. He seems like the type who won't try and talk to me. I walk over to him and gingerly set my books down, contemplating whether to say hi or not. I decide on not.
"Welcome to your Creative Writing class. I am Dr. Hayes, and I will have you for this class all year. I will not be your favourite teacher, I can guarantee you that. But I can also guarantee that you will get top marks in this class."
Dr Hayes has a loud, high pitched, clear voice. When she talks, her eyes struggle to remain impassive. She is hiding her emotions. I like this professor.
"The first thing on our agenda is to get to know one person in this class. Only one person. Talk to them, ask them whatever questions you like. The answers may be true, they may not. Gather your impressions of them. You have this whole lesson to do this. I will expect at least a 5 page piece on who you think they are by next lesson. You can make up as much of it as you want, but I will be marking it with the expectation that you include at least 5 things your partner told you in the story, otherwise it would just be like any other creative writing piece. You may begin." Dr Hayes smiles briefly, then sits at her desk and stares out the window.
The class immediately erupts into a stream of noise. This is just what I didn't want. Now I actually have to talk to people.
"Uh, hi." I hear a deep voice speak from next to me so I turn, internally cursing every God (that I don't believe in) that of all things, this is what we had to do on the first day.
"Hi." I say, unsmilingly, looking at the recipient of my hostility.
He has this stupid emo haircut and warm chocolate brown eyes.
"I'm Striker." he bites his lip, as if trying not to smile.
"Are you fucking joking... is that your real name??" I ask, astonished.
"Yeah." he nods seriously. "My parents were really into bowling."
"I don't know what to believe." I raise an eyebrow, smiling slightly (but only ever so slightly). "My name's Nirvana."
"Haha. I was actually being serious, though. My name is actually Striker. I just... I sometimes try to make a joke out of it because I feel so insecure about it." he mutters, his eyes filling will all-too-real tears.
"Fuck, I'm sorry." I tell him awkwardly, not knowing what to say. "For your information, my real name is actually Nirvana."
He looks up, his eyes no longer filled with tears but nevertheless, oddly bright and shiny.
"Seriously?"
I nod, shrugging.
"What, were your parents like, weird hipster teenagers who fucked in the back of a tent at a music festival or something?" he scoffs.
I clench my jaw, trying to ignore the pit that has formed in my stomach, leaving an empty feeling in it's wake.
"I um- I actually never knew my parents," I explain carefully, my voice controlled and nervous, as if I am on the verge of tears. But I'm always on the verge of tears, I guess. "I live with my father's drug dealer. I mean, I did. Until I moved away. Obviously."
He blinks several times, still staring at me as if I were a code he had a limited time to decipher.
"What?" I ask after a few moments, beginning to feel annoyed.
"I'm just trying to work you out." he says quietly, a new emotion behind his cold words. "You're confusing."
"No, no I'm not. I didn't even say anything confusing." I reply defensively.
Both of us know my words mean nothing, they are empty, just like anything that has anything to do with me. Empty. Lifeless. We both know it. But there is no way in hell I would ever admit that to this... this stranger.
But if he's a stranger.... why do I feel like I am already beginning to understand him?
"I'm done here." he suddenly announces, pushing his chair back with a screeching noise.
"What?" I ask, still in a haze.
"I was joking, by the way. My name's Dan." he says, and as he turns, I think I see the slightest smile upon his lips. But then again, I could be imagining it.
