Harry Styles; the name that comes to mind when you think of the typical playboy at Oak Grove high school.
Everyone knows that he is nothing but a player, but everyone lets him toy with their naïve little hearts.
I, on the other hand, have more of a filter when it comes to boys that I have feelings for, and even though Styles may have a charming smile, that is adorned by deep dimples, I don't thinker
I could let him anywhere near what controls my heart. Not that he would even want to hold the strings that could make me laugh, cry, or turn into a total sociopath. I'm the school nerd, he probably doesn't even want to be in the same room with me. The only thing he would want from me is for me to do his homework.
Sighing, I look around my empty, as always, lunch table, while closing my journal. I grasp the Granny Smith apple, that is the only edible thing that sits on my tray, and take a small bite.
This is how it always is. I sit at lunch, alone, whilst writing about anything that sticks in my mind for so long that I can't stand to not talk about it with anyone, and since I don't have many friends, I turn to my journal.
Usually, it's a escape, but lately it has only been a problem because it isn't helping me get over the one thing that is causing me the most internal conflict; the school player.
I try to write negative things about him so I won't keep feeling as though he is the most gorgeous boy in this school, even though he is, but it's not working. Every time he passes me in the hall I get all jittery, and feel like I am going to puke all over the, already ugly, hallway floors.
I'm not sure where these feelings came from, I've never really spoken to him, except for the time we were partnered up for a reading assignment.
I sound so pathetic, thinking about the most popular boy on school like this when he probably doesn't even remember my name. It makes me angry to think that I'm turning into some kind of love sick puppy when I've always been to strong when it came to love. It used to be all about my grades, but now all I care about is if my hair looks okay, or if my shoes match my outfit.
I'm falling apart and there's nothing I can do about it except for dream about Mr. Playboy and I.
