35 ᴍᴍ ꜰɪʟᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴄᴏꜰꜰᴇᴇ I 🎀 𝒢𝓇𝒶𝒸𝒾𝑒 𝒜𝒷𝓇𝒶𝓂𝓈 [𝑔𝓍𝑔] 🎀

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐝

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

The next day, the buzzing energy of the previous night felt like a distant memory as Charlie-Wren trudged across campus. The early morning sun was too bright for her still-tired eyes, and her brain was fogged from staying up until 6 a.m. to finish her English paper. She stifled a yawn, clutching her coffee like a lifeline as she made her way to the campus café to meet Rachel and Jackson before their lecture.

Rachel was already there, perched on a bench outside, her nose buried in The Hunger Games book. Her red hair gleamed in the sunlight, and she looked far too alert for someone who had likely stayed up just as late. "Morning," Charlie-Wren greeted, plopping down beside her and letting her bag rest on the ground with a thud.

Rachel looked up, eyebrows raised. "You look like you got run over by a bus," she said, her usual bluntness softened by a teasing grin. "Looks like the assignments have won yet again."

"Yeah, and I blame you," Charlie-Wren said, slouching back on the bench and sipping her coffee. "You're the one who convinced me to go to the gig last night."

Rachel laughed, leaning back. "Come on, you know you had fun. Plus, you got to meet Gracie Abrams. That's got to count for something, right?" 

Charlie just remembered that she told her about encountering the girl with the bows. As soon as she entered her accommodation tipsy and late at night, she found the bassist also finishing off her paper in the kitchen. And she knew instantly that she was caught.

Rachel didn't let Charlie go, on a mission to find out what was keeping her out so late, especially with the deadline due. Was it another hookup? Did she go clubbing? Did she fall asleep in the park again? No. It wasn't anything to be freaked out about. Unless the Gracie Abrams came to find you. 

Charlie-Wren hesitated, Gracie's words echoing in her mind again. "Yeah, it was... something," she muttered, not wanting to dive into the confusing mix of emotions that had been swirling around her since the night before. Before Rachel could press her, Jackson arrived, his backpack slung over one shoulder and his hair in its usual tousled state, like he had just rolled out of bed. "Hey, losers," he said with a grin, sitting down on the bench beside them. "What's up?" 

"Fucking dying is what's up right now." Charlie-Wren complained, feeling like her body isn't her own. Jackson raised an eyebrow, chuckling at his friend's hungover state. "Ey, you'll be alright, buddy; I can still give you some of my valium —Fuck off, Jackson. I'm not taking your stash." 

She interjected, in which the drummer put his hands up in defence. It seems like this was not the first time he had offered it to her. "Alright then. But one of these days, I'm sure you will be asking for some. So, your loss." He muttered to himself, not lightly slapping the back of her friend in an attempt to piss her off even more. But Charlie-Wren didn't have the energy to even fight Jackson right now. She felt sick.

"Charlie's still recovering from last night," Rachel informed him, shooting Charlie-Wren a playful glance and smirking. In which Charlie saw and knew where this was going. "No, don't—She met Gracie Abrams." Rachel blurted out before she could stop her. 

Jackson's eyes widened. "Wait, seriously? Holy shit! That's awesome! How'd that happen?"

Charlie-Wren shrugged, trying to play it off like it wasn't a big deal, though the memory of Gracie's smile and the way they had talked late into the night kept tugging at the edges of her thoughts. "After I went up to the rooftop, she came and found me... and the rest was history." She decided to not drag on with the details, not being in a state to have a gossip session with the group.