Creep

Breathing

Sitting at the back of the class, you found some peace for your frayed nerves. You excelled at math and always had, so you had already completed the work set for the lesson. From here to the bell, it was just doodling and trying to block out intrusive thoughts until it was time to go home. Every time Munson's voice crept into your mind, you mentally batted it away. You could acknowledge he was correct but just felt really grossed out about this potential voyeur. Who else knew? Geez, so gross.

Absent-mindedly doodling and looking as though you were entirely focused on the teacher at the front when you had zoned out a while ago. You remembered how you'd sit at the front of the class in middle school, eagerly darting your hand up to answer anything you might know.

You mentally made a seating map journey over the years. You'd steadily worked your way back here, become much less bold, your hair less perfect, your clothes more loose fitting and definitely less planned out and more grab and go. You were never jock-level popular, but you didn't mind being noticed back then. Besides, perfection was overrated. You just needed to make it to graduation, which shouldn't be an issue with your grades. It was more about surviving the social minefield of the day-to-day.

It wasn't like you were a total loner. You just seemed to prefer more shallow relationships with others. It was just easier. No one ever expected you to attend gatherings, or remember their birthday, remember to pick something or someone up for them. No one depended on you, and you relied on no one. Sure, you had people you talked to occasionally, but friends had slipped by the wayside this last year. Instead, you'd been...spending your free time with him, waiting for him, or alone because he cancelled last minute.

"You are so much better than this. Anybody is. No one deserves to be treated like a guilty secret" Munson's voice swam through your head as you tried to brush it aside again. The more you thought about it, the more a tiny seed of realisation grew.

You had all this information before this afternoon, you knew this existence wasn't proper, it was just an easy routine, with no pressure, but with no genuine respect, care or...you know what... on paper...did you even like this guy? Or was it he'd be one associated with a flood of hormones on a rare occasion? He was handsome, sure, but you didn't talk about anything of substance, like an actual conversation, he never asked any questions about yourself...the seed of realisation sprouts...you only ever talk about him and what he's doing. Your mind flashes back to how it started, though. It was different then, a random seating change, a passed note. Then, the flood of messages in your locker telling you all sorts of flattering, albeit generic, complements, in fact, the same lines he told you in person, almost like a script. A flash of anger sparks in you, a fucking script. That was it. You'd made your mind up. This was over.

The bell marking the end of class reverberates through your thoughts, and you nearly jump out of your seat, much to the amusement of your classmates. You scoop your things into your backpack and get out of there as quickly as possible, heading to your locker's sanctuary.

Resisting the urge to climb inside the locker and disappear into an abyss forever, you pick up the usual note with the usual time on and stuff it into your back pocket. The inside of your locker door was as plain as possible, a mirror, a timetable of classes. At least this way, you could blend in, be forgettable, nothing would stand out, and no one would ask any questions. The real personality here was right at the back, where your idols lived Joan Jett, Suzie Quatro, Stevie Nicks, Freddie Mercury, and Bowie. You gaze up at them for a moment, pull the paper from your back pocket, and look at it again. The note was hastily scribbled, no complimentary quote, no kiss, no nothing, just a time, an appointment. You look over each of your musical heroes again... they wouldn't stand for this, not now...not ever. You screw up the paper tighter in your hand, so tightly the corners of the paper dig in a little.