𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐫.

¡ three !

january
✿————✿

On your first day of pottery, you overslept. The class was 12-2:30 P.M., but your flight landed at eight, you didn't get to your parent's house until nine, and your apartment was an hour and a half away from theirs, meaning your Uber didn't get there until 10:30.

And you had completely forgotten about jet lag.

So you skipped the first day and told yourself that you'd be there next time for sure.

The second day of pottery, you fell asleep at your desk after pulling an all nighter to complete all of your asynchronous work in one class for the next three weeks and didn't wake up until four in the afternoon—barely in time for your Biology class.

On the third day of pottery, it took all of your willpower to not just skip. You were staring to consider the possibility that it wasn't coincidences keeping you from going to class, but a subconscious dislike of the idea of you going to a pottery class that continuously managed to cause you to make bad decisions that would keep you from going to class.

You could've easily come back a day earlier during your trip and gotten used to the time difference and gotten settled before the semester started, you just...didn't.

But today you had to go. You couldn't stop yourself from going, this was a necessity. You had to go to class.

Well—did you? What were they gonna do, realistically? Call your parents? Not likely.

But, hypothetically, if your parents did find out that you were skipping class, they would kill you for sure. They definitely were not paying for you to go to school and not learn.

That's how you ended up stepping off of the bus in a slightly unfamiliar area of the campus—the Arts District. As more of a science-focused student, you seriously hadn't stepped foot near this area since you toured the school right before your senior year—three years ago.

Either way, you were there now. It was actually really cool, beautifully creative graffiti and murals decorated every building wall, statues held streetlights instead of regular lamp posts, and stores and restaurants lined every block. You even walked past a farmer's market as you neared the class building.

It was a large building with a sign reading "Visual Arts" outside and a map that showed where every class was. They had something for everything—photography, art, digital art, ceramics, and more.

You followed the signs and directions to the room with a plaque outside that read "Pottery/Ceramics".

The room was cool, definitely had the artistic vibe from the splashes of paint (or wait, wasn't their paint called something else? Glaze? Whatever), dried pieces of clay, and shelves and shelves of supplies lining the back walls.

While you scanned the room to take in the class (and find somewhere to sit), you locked eyes with a familiar brown-haired boy. He smiled, dropping the chunk off clay onto the table. You pursed your lips.

Interesting.

You walked up to him, slipping off your bag and dropping it on the floor against the table leg.

"What brings you here?" he asked nonchalantly, kneading the clay against the table's surface.

You ignored his obviously sarcastic question, asking him a one of your own.

"So when I asked you if I should take pottery, you knew we'd have it together?" you asked, crossing your arms and putting them on the table, leaning your upper body down on them. You watched him continue to knead at it.