𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐞 → 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐬 (𝐢𝐢)

three [t]

monday,
march 25th, 2020

TRINITY HAYSON

"Hayson, you're photographing Mr. Mendes at four," my boss, Adam — or Mr. White to me — informs me as he pokes his head into my office.

I furrow my eyebrows, "What? I was never told this."

I internally groan. Despite being fiercely adamant on not being near Shawn anymore, things seem to keep popping up. The interview, the fact that he'll be attending the party that I have to attend, and this. It's not okay, I'm not happy about it. I want to forget him and his sweet talk and his pretty face. I'm sick of hearing his name or seeing him on billboards. Especially if that billboard displays a very up close and personal picture of him in his underwear.

Little does the rest of the world know, I've had his impressive package in my face — and elsewhere — multiple times before. Another reason he's hard to forget. His huge fucking dick. 

Mr. White talks to me about all the details of the mini shoot. Because I have a light schedule today, he's appointed me as photographer. I first photographed somebody for an article back in February. It was a last minute shoot and there was no time to hire a photographer. I offered to do it, due to my secret fascination with photography. I'm not big into it, but I'd always take the chance to photograph people for the magazine when I'm offered money to do so. Those photos turned out great, and Mr. White usually now comes to me to take pictures of people the magazine has interviewed.

Shawn didn't get his pictures taken the day he was interviewed and I assumed it was because he was in a rush. Busy man nowadays. I usually enjoy the newness of the photography aspect and I've had a lot of opportunities to meet inspirational people and talk with them, but I know Shawn. Well, I think I do. After two years apart, maybe I don't. But from what I remember, the Shawn I know would definitely try to make a move on me during this photo shoot if he still has feelings for me.

Honestly, I don't know if he does. When he chased me back to my office after the interview, it got me thinking. The cogs started turning in my brain and I began to think that it's likely he still feels something for me. We had something truly incredible; we were madly in love. When he broke my heart, he broke his own and that was obvious. It's still his mistake, and I'm not going to fix that. Plus, another part of me thinks that if he really did still want me, he would've found me and confessed by now. He was always persistent like that.

I finish editing an article that my co-worker wrote when the clock hits half three. I edit dozens of pieces of work in a day, every day. After all, I'm head editor. I receive a bucketload of emails a day and I actually quite enjoy editing them. I never change too much, always wanting my fellow journalists to gain a sense of authenticity from their work. I'm also never really harsh, but I'm not afraid to go all out when there's intensive grammar mistakes. And sometimes there is. That's my biggest pet peeve.

I email the completed paragraph back to its original owner. I then decide to take a quick trip to the bathroom to freshen up. I use the toilet and wash my hands before touching up my lipstick.

No, I'm not trying to impress him.

Or am I?

Frankly, I have no idea.

As I'm returning to my office, my assistant stops me. Her name is Hale and she's more of a friend than my assistant.

"You look like you're in need of a coffee," she confidently says, following me into my office.

I take a seat at my desk with a huff, leaning forward to rub my temples in hopes of ridding my brain of the oncoming migraine, "It's Shawn," I sigh.