Signed /Dream Team/

44

A wave of heat runs from my head down my body. And then everything freezes, making me feel cold.

I part my mouth, just to realize that I have nothing to say. So I just put the phone on the table, not bothering to hang up and hurry to the bathroom.

Oh, look there's an actual idiot in the mirror. Someone so dumb that doesn't even know how to act in situations like this and is just staring at herself and thinking what she did wrong and why everything went wrong.

Why am I even mad, we're not dating, we're nothing special. I don't even know why I thought he'd feel connected to me. We just kissed, but it's only a big deal to me cause I like him. He probably just saw an opportunity and took it, I should stop overreacting.

Why am I so angry though? I should've known this is how it was supposed to go.

You know what? I have the right to be angry.

Fuck him. Actually, fuck him. If I knew earlier I'd fuck his best friends with no hesitation at all. It's not too late, but it sucks that he got to do it first.

Damn it.

I look at the mirror again and frown at my reflection. It frowns back. I lean closer to the mirror and she leans closer. I press my teeth together and see her clench her jaw. She's so fucking hot, she should stop being dramatic and shower instead cause it looks like she dived into an oil tank.

I run the shower and lock the door, stripping infront of the mirror and trying my best not to punch the glass. Honestly, his loss. Fuck him, I'm not even gonna think about him anymore.

Yeah, I'm gonna stop thinking about him right now.

I'm gonna stop being aggressive with my body scrub before I peel my skin off.

I'm gonna stop aggressively putting my hair into a ponytail before it all falls out.

It's okay, I'll just workout and everything will go back to normal.

Right?

No.

"Why are you being so aggressive?"

Ever since Clay found me in the second floor of the gym assaulting a punching bag, he decided to stay and watch. It's been 30 minutes and I'm wondering why's he still here. I don't even feel like talking to him, he should just leave.

"Your knuckles are gonna be bruised," he speaks again. The fact that nobody's here at the second floor, there's no music, and his voice echoes in the emptiness is not helping.

I'm not using hand protection but it's okay cause I took boxing classes when I was seven and our trainer kept telling us to punch walls cause it helps to harden your knuckles.

I finally stand to take a breath and answer him, "What are you even doing here? Go lift weights."

I know he didn't expect me to be rude to him for no reason at all, but I'd much prefer to see him react appropriately to situations like this. The way his eyebrows rise and he smiles is the opposite of what he should've done. Literally, smiling and smirking have been the only facial expressions he used the whole day to react to any situation involving me.

"Alright," he shrugs.

I sigh in relief seeing him approach his bag. But when he comes back with hand wraps, I understand that there's no escape. I should accept my fate.

"What are you-"

Not even asking if I want it or not, he grabs my right hand and starts wrapping it up. I smack my mouth and sigh, giving in eventually only because I don't want to go to work with bruised knuckles and he's just trying to help. It's not his fault I'm mad.