As I make my way to my first period class room, I bump into someone.
I look up to see who the person is.
I see a boy.
I purse my lips in a sort of apology and quickly drop down to gather my stuff.
"Sorry" the boy says.
I just nod my head.
I had gathered all my stuff and tried to quickly scurry away.
Tried to.
The boy had grabbed my shoulder, stopping me from escaping.
"Aren't you going to say sorry?" He asks.
But not in a mean way.
He sounds genuinely confused.
I just try to run away again, and this time I succeed.
I guess the boy thinks that I'm rude.
Oh well.
I probably won't ever see him again anyway.
YOU ARE READING
49
Short Story"The number 49 never used to have any significance in my life. It was always just the number after 48 and before 50. But that was before it happened."
