nights like this, jean kirstein

2. 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐄

WARNING: Slight nsfw ahead.
CNC drinking games with 18+ themes.

The next couple of days went by smoothly, consisting of beach picnics, blunt rotations on your deck and target runs to spend money on essentials for your house and of course the little things that are 100% unnecessary. It's now Wednesday, and you found yourself fiddling with the strings of your acoustic guitar to escape.

Your hands are relatively soft, but the pads of your fingers on your left hand are hardened and calloused from hours of playing through sleepless nights.

Heavy strings vibrate under your digits as you pluck and handle the strings, humming incoherent and  improvised lyrics under your breath.

You've been writing music nonstop, trying to perfect one little song that you wrote whilst crying your eyes out in the middle of your childhood bedroom.

The loss of your sister is worn on the wrist that forms chords on each fret—-  sunken, familiar. . they don't hurt as much as they used to. Your wrist that tells your fingers to finger the strings ache, wearing your latest heartbreak up your wrist and into your blood, most painful when touched.

You rest your chin on the upper body of your guitar and bite the interior of your cheek, tapping your foot against the hardwood floor.

There were still a couple of hours before you would leave for Zeke's, so you drag yourself across the room and set your six string on it's folding stand and move to search through your heaps of clothes for something more socially acceptable regarding Isla Vista's standards.

You leave your room and announce your departure, saying your quick goodbye to Mikasa who was sat at the kitchen counter having a snack. Historia was probably with Ymir.

Passing the living room, you spot Sasha asleep on the couch bundled up in a thick knit blanket with the walking dead playing at a low volume from the tv.

You laugh at her on your way out the door and step off the front stoop, sticking your airpods into your ears and opening up spotify. You press shuffle on Feeble Little Horses' profile, and begin to make your 20 minute walk to the campus store where your textbooks and other supplies should have been delivered.

Once you arrive, you're thankful to be out of the heat and enter into a cool, air conditioned building that smelled of new carpeting.

The campus store is huge, and pretty busy at this time of day with a handful of students grabbing their last minute supplies before their first day of classes in two days.

You find yourself wandering the different sections of the store, eyes taking in all of the college apparel, rows of stickers and graduation cards, and tapestries of your mascot.

Walking up to the front cash register, a girl around your age works intensely on her laptop. She has short, wavy blonde hair that would stick out in any crowd. Her head bobs up at the immediate sight of you, and she pushed her device to the side. "Hi! How can I help you?"

"I'm here to pick up my textbooks and labcoat. I got a text yesterday that they were here." You say, pressing your thumbs together, and giving her  your name.

She had a familiar look to you, but you figured that you've just seen her some random day while riding your bike to and from classes. Could someone even remember somebody like that?

"Okay! Let me go grab them! I remember seeing your name." She says, bouncing away. In a moment she returns, placing your textbooks down on the counter with a 'thump' and putting your neatly folded labcoat on top of it. "Is that it?"

"It should be. Thank you so much." You smile, pulling your backpack off of your shoulder and lifting your supplies into it neatly. The weight might kill you on your walk back home.