Hope | The Hoodie Girl One Shot.

One Shot.

His fingers work with care and meaning, stamping the words on the blank paper. The bell ring goes off and the students rush inside of their classrooms, stumbling inside, some even collapsing onto their seats.

He raises his gaze in expectation of the class to begin and the professor takes out his notebook, trying to calm everyone down. His eyes scan throughout the room, as if he was trying to find something hidden beneath those masks people often wear. But not until a girl stumbles inside of the classroom, her face reddened and her hair a mess.

“Sorry I’m late,” she excuses herself. “I needed to get my schedule.”

“You’re changing classes, Ms. Martin?” the professor asks as he looks up and eyes the girl. “Why so?”

“Well, uhm—” she looks around the room, maybe trying to find for a free seat that frees her of the conversation, but instead, she locks eyes with the blue-eyed. “I—I needed something new, I guess. Besides that everyone else was a jerk, my schedule sucked.”

“Oh, I see,” the professor clicks his tongue, “take a seat, Ms. Martin and try not to mess this class up.”

“Yes, sir.”

She starts walking towards the nearest free seat, luckily next to Asher. His muscles tense and he holds in a breath, squeezing his eyes shot. Martin giggles and plumps on her seat, taking out her material and looking frontwards. Asher, out of the corner of his eye, eyes carefully the girl.

Then, he returns his attention towards the professor, aware of that girl being a distraction to him.

• • •

The lunch bell rings and the students take off and run towards the cafeteria. Martin and Asher are the only ones left in the classroom without no one waiting for them exactly, so they take it easy and calm. He picks his last books and starts walking toward the door. But, a tap on his fornid shoulder makes him turn around. He whirls around and faces the new girl.

She smiles softly, but the dark circles under her eyes and the stains of paint on her hands say differently. Maybe she was up late painting, saying off thanks to the stains up on her arms and hands, even nails. Asher raises his eyebrows, ushering the girl to speak.

“Hi, I’m Wren.” she speaks softly and calmly, taking Asher aback. Usually, he’s used to screaming in each other’s faces and pointing fingers at each other. “Everyone is noisy in here, but you aren’t, you write on that book words throughout the whole entire class.” she sighs. “wanna be friends? I kinda don’t like being around noisy people, or people, at all.” 

“Uhm, I—”

“Oh, no!” she squeaks. “that’s not how you make friends on senior year, right? That’s not how you—well, what’s your name?”

“I’m Ash—”

“I’m Wren!” she squeaks again, her face radiating with happiness. “Oh, no, I already cut you off twice and I already told my name but in case you forgot I—”

“I’m Asher.” he says. “Nice meeting you, Wren.”

Wren smiled and nodded her head in agreement, “Yeah, it’s nice to meet me.”

• • •

Wren slumps down on her chair and takes out the paper bag out of her backpack, throwing it onto the table. She takes out the sandwich packed and unfolds the wrapper, throwing it behind her shoulder.

About to take a bit out of her sandwich, she feels emptiness behind her. She looks upwards and meets Asher’s blue eyes, looking down at her in complete awe.

“Do I have mustard on my face?” Wren quickly asks, rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand. But none response comes out of Asher’s mouth and Wren burns under his eyes. “Uhm, what is it?”

“Are we sitting here?” Asher asks, eyeing the table.

“Uh, yeah,” Wren clicks her tongue, “is there a problem with that?”

Asher doesn’t reply at all, instead, he snaps back with another question, “and you’re asking me to sit down with you?”

“Sure,” Wren quickly says and shrugs, “you don’t want to?”

Suddenly, Asher collapses to the chair next to her, his hand closing to the books sticked to his chest, his knuckles going white. But Wren simply shrugs it off—thinking it was awkward enough that Asher looked down at her without moving, maybe even breathing.

After a few seconds in silence, Asher’s hand slips the book down to Wren’s hand. She looks down at it and raises her eyebrows, “what?”

“Here, keep it, and write down any thought that wanders through your head whenever you feel alone or empty.”

“Why?”

“Because I know how that feels.”

• • •

After Asher had decided to give his notebook to the new student in his class, a piece in his chest lit up. He noticed the real girl beneath that mask she hid under. After Wren looked blankly at the book, he stormed off, without waiting Wren to give him an answer.

But she opened it, anyways.

School had ended and she walked back home, the blue book at her hands. Soon as she set foot on the house, she started reading the words Asher had previously written.

A soft moan escaped her lips when one certain poem catched her attention, the black inked cursive being read by coffee eyes and long lashes. The words were inhalated as a drug or something to keep her from drowning, from dying.

Soon, night fell upon the neighborhood and she quietly asked herself where Asher might be, or why had he decided to write poetry. But art and meaning dripped from his words and intentions, dark yet light.

At three AM, she took the pen and opened an blank page. Then, wrote,

The blue eyed monster..,

-

I'm done. I have been working with 900 words one month, one freaking month, and omg, I'm genuinely glad and proud for what it came out afterall.

yuenwrites love you girl so much and remember, flowers for yuen? It's under some correcting but you'll get to see it soon!