Phil's POV
Thursday
I have no idea what to do today, I'm bored out of my damn mind. I don't have school, so I really don't need to be anywhere, and it's not like anyone would want me with them. I wish I hadn't finished my essay yesterday. I did finish it 4 weeks early, but that's not the point. I'd have something to do if i hadn't.
I sit down at my new, shiny apple computer I got when my dad bought the newest one last year, and read the essay over, looking for mistakes. The third time I've done that this morning. Like the other two times, I couldn't find any mistakes.
As you can see, I'm a pupil at university, and I'm majoring in mathematics.
There's no social event I could be at since I'm never invited to anything. The people here don't really like me. It wasn't my choice to go to university. I was forced by my mum and dad. It's not that I don't enjoy the wonderful education, I'd just rather not do this for them. They've not exactly been the best parents.
All of a sudden, an old memory pops into my mind. When I was 5, my grandmother used to read tarot cards with me. We'd sit together on her old wine-coloured sofa with the cards (that she'd bought in a garage sale years ago) and some pastry from the best bakery in town on the scratchy, wooden coffee table and she'd teach me what each card meant. We'd have so much fun predicting each other's futures, and I remember a lot of it came true. It's my only memory of her, because she died early january the year I became 6. Since then I've always believed everything happens for a reason.
The memory gives me a craving for pastry, so I get my coat and run outside to catch the bus. I almost miss it, and I'm panting as I step inside the heavy, sweat smelling air. It's really crowded, and I sit down next to a window. I forgot my headphones so I can't listen to music. It's not a long ride, but I love music. I just look out the window instead. The sky is grey and full of clouds. It's going to rain soon. I jump out on Prince Street, the street gloomy and the air humid. In between of huge banks and office buildings, is a much smaller one, Street corner bakery. I carefully open the door, and step inside. The place has a vintage feeling to it, the building is old and the shop has antique tables, shelves and decorations. It smells of wonderful pastry and bread. There's only two or three people in here, and the shop is quite small. Behind the counter is a beautiful boy. He has hazel brown hair and dark brown eyes, a beautiful face shape and a long, skinny body. He's a little taller than I am. I notice that he's looking at me, like he knows me, or maybe recognises me. Now that I think about it, he does look quite familiar.
"Excuse me, do we know each other?" I ask.
"We, er- go to the same school," he says and, to my surprise, blushes. Why would he blush?
"Oh, are you also in math?"
"Yeah," he answers quite nervously. I wonder why he would be anxious.
"Why are you blushing?" I say and almost immediately regret it. He looks like a nerve-wreck, he doesn't look up from the floor, his voice is stuttering and he keeps scratching his outer thigh.
"No reason, it's, er- kind of hot in here?" He says and looks sideways.
I can tell that he's lying but I decide to just go with it, I don't want to make him uncomfortable.
"Would you maybe like to meet sometime and talk or something?" I ask him.
"Sure, how about we talk tomorrow at school and we can maybe have coffee after?"
"OK, that sounds good! What's your phone number?"
He gets a small post-it note and writes his name, Dan Howell, and number, along with his instagram, snapchat and twitter.
"Find me on facebook," he says, smiling. I don't even know what snapchat is.
I proceed to buy a loaf of bread and a muffin and say goodbye to him as I walk away.
"Alright, see you tomorrow then," I say and wave my hand at him. He waves back.
When I get outside, raindrops gently tickle my nose. It's about 2PM o'clock, and I just missed the bus. I want to walk back to my dorm and think. I can't believe it's been a year of uni and this is the first time I've made a friend.
