Waiting for the sun (Leondre Devries)

2- tattered and taped

Y/n's pov
Do normal people do this? I don't know. I know that at least one other person does it because I see him everyday. Each morning, between half ten and eleven, I go to that massive park. It has birds and grass and trees and hills and a fountain and a cafe and my heart. It has my heart. I look forwards to this trip. I leave at about 4 as I have work from half past. And recently there's been someone else who arrives at the same time every day. He wears the same type of clothes as me: a lot of black and ripped jeans. Today he has that black jumper again. To be honest, I've grown to love it. I want one. When I close my eyes I can still trace the roses on the front and the letters down the arms. He sits on the third bench. I've claimed myself the fourth. He has a black notepad all tattered and taped together. He scribbled manically, obviously writing something he's passionate about. Not in a stalkery way, but I really wanna know what he's writing. He seems to go through stages with emotion. Most of the time he jut stares into the distance over the hill until he thinks of something adequate or whatever it is he's writing. Marcus (my best friend) calls me, so I know I have to answer. He barely ever does that.

☎️

Y/n : Hey. What do you need.

Marcus : Just wanna know if your ok. You seemed a bit distant the few days.

Y/n : I'm fine Marcus, really. You don't need to worry about me. If you really wanna do something for me, go buy some Nutella and drop it by the coffee shop in my shift later.

Marcus : Uuuuuugggghhhh fiiiinnnnnneee. But only if you promise me you'll be happy today.

Y/n : ok I promise. Anyway, I'm hopeful for today.

☎️

The boy looks at me. He has a mixed expression on his face. Somewhere between a knowing smile and a smirk. Suddenly that last phrase seems familiar. I try to see his face for once but as usual it's covered by his hood and a layer or hair. Oh, that hair. Most of my days are spent dreaming of that hair. It's beautiful, kind of the colour of a morning espresso at the coffee shop. It's died though. To look lighter. The roots show the perfects amount. Not too much. Not too little. I just really wanna see the colour of his eyes. There he goes in the little black book. Tattered and torn. He flicks his hair out of his face with a single movement. I see a nervous smile form on his lips. Aaaaaah. I think I was staring. Then I look up again. His eyes lock with mine. OH his eyes. The familiar colour of Nutella immediately comes to mind. The dark brown orbs mesmerise me. As if spoken to my an invisible force he once more began to write incessantly. I recognise him.

AN
Sorry for the messed up logic. Please comment any mistakes and vote. Comment your favourite bars and melody song. Mine is Fast Car or Waiting For The Sun
Baaaaaiiiii my noodles
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