quartz street ➢ brad simpson [au]

eight

// monday //

Besides trying so hard to act calm and reserved in my seat, with a half-finished book — The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien — covering half my face, I dreamed. 

I asked permission from Mrs. Johnson, if I could read the classic, which was left alone at the end of the shelf. It was a shame that not a lot of people really appreciated it anymore. To me, reading these kinds of books made me think of how it would be nice if I could just live in a world, in which I made everything.

I did like to read, and it only made my imagination reach its peak, to the point that I don't even pay attention to what I was reading. I've just been focused on that boy across me, occasionally smiling because of how his sunglasses would almost fall or how he'd look so irritated with whatever he was writing down.

My breaks consisted of reading, usually, but lately, I've been thinking about how it would be like, if I had the courage to cross the street and talk to him. Would he think I was weird, for walking all the way there, to murmur a simple "hi"?

I wish he'd return me a smile. I haven't seen him closely, but I'm almost sure he has dimples. The fact that I haven't seen him grin often made things more special, and if I was the reason for it, I didn't know how I would react anymore.

He held his drink and a pen in hand, while staring at the napkin he had written on. It made me curious on what he was writing about, but I knew it wasn't about me — or for me, of course.

When he let out a chuckle, I felt a little jealous.

Would he have smiled, if he was writing about me?