"Foolish Dreamers" Michael Afton x Reader

𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓕𝓾𝓬𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓑𝓲𝓽𝓬𝓱. (Ch.25)

Thursday
November 29, 1984 12:30 P.M.

With only five minutes left before lunch, Y/N and Michael kept their conversation limited to pencil strokes on a fresh sheet of paper, even though the assignment was done, and their sketches had already been turned in. They sat quietly, exchanging the page back and forth like it was some kind of silent truce. Y/N doodled a small cat curled up on one corner and a woman, and Michael added a tree with barren branches next to it as if making some sort of setting.

They weren't drawing anything cohesive—just little images that filled the space between them. It was awkward, but it was something. Words still hung heavy in the air, unspoken, but their pencils did the talking for now.

Y/N tapped her pencil against the page, thinking just five more minutes as she glanced at the sketch Michael was working on. Her heart stuttered when she saw it: a man holding a heart out toward the woman she had drawn earlier. She froze, the meaning sinking in.

Her gaze flicked to Michael, expecting some smug look, maybe a smirk—anything to hint at bitterness or anger. But instead, he gave her that small, fragile smile, the kind that made her stomach twist. This foolish boy... Why wasn't he mad? Why wasn't he lashing out at me? He had every reason to, yet here he was—silent, patient, confusing me more with that soft look. It was almost like forgiveness, and it made the guilt weigh heavier in her chest.

Y/N's jaw tightened, and without thinking, she pressed her pencil to the paper. She sketched a tiny stick man grasping the heart, carefully placing it back into the hands of the man Michael had drawn. She didn't want that heart lying out in the open, not after everything she'd done. But she wasn't finished. Her pencil moved with shaky determination, forming bars around the stick figure, trapping it inside a small, crude jail cell. A quiet metaphor for what she believed she deserved—for what she felt: guilt, regret, and the weight of knowing she'd hurt someone who didn't deserve it.

She stared at the drawing, chewing the inside of her cheek. There. That's what I deserve. She hoped it said what she couldn't out loud—that she wasn't ready for his forgiveness, that she was too ashamed to accept it just yet. She needed to prove herself.

Her heart pounded as she glanced at Michael again, half expecting him to take the page away, to stop playing this silent game of sketches. But instead, he just watched, his expression calm, maybe even a little sad. And that made it worse.

______________________
12:39 P.M.

Y/N's POV

The chaotic hum of the lunchroom hit me the second I stepped inside—voices overlapping, trays clattering, and the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead. The smell of pizza, fries, and stale cafeteria nachos mingled in the air, making my stomach churn more from nerves than hunger. After almost three days of avoiding this place, it felt strange to finally go inside, like the noise was louder, the tables more crowded than my old school, and I didn't quite fit in. But I had promised myself I'd eat with Joyce today. No more distractions. No more Michael taking up all the space in my head and my actual time when he would drag me away.

Except... he still did.

The memory of his small, fleeting smile before the bell for lunch rang clung to me. He hadn't said a word—just smiled, and then left. Not a real smile either, just the barest curve of his lips, like some quiet reassurance that only made me feel worse. Why can't you just be mad at me already? I grumbled inwardly, clutching my satchel tighter.

It felt ridiculous, but that tiny moment threw me off balance, making my steps feel heavier as I entered the lunchroom. I scanned the noisy space, weaving through the maze of backpacks and trays. The chatter pressed in, like it always did—loud laughter from the table near the front, the scrape of chairs against the floor, and the distant clink of silverware.