the songwriter || fowler

i

Andy Fowler, let's just say, was a typical teenage boy. Many believe that guys don't have feelings. Well, they're wrong. Guys have a ton of feelings, same as the female species, but they just don't let it show as much.

Andy looks like any typical teenage boy: his hair styled in different variations of a quiff, he wears a regular tee with the sleeves rolled up a bit, wears glasses even though he doesn't need them, and he wears his signature smirk.

The only thing that doesn't make him any average teenage guy is this: he locks himself up in his little world and writes instead of going out and hanging out with friends, partying, and playing video games.

Why you ask? Because though having relationships gives him opportunities to write, he hates going through the pain.

He sits in his little table in the far corner of the coffee shop. Music sheets scattered around the table, a cup of herbal tea set aside, his glasses pushed far up the bridge of his nose, a pencil gripped between his teeth, and a guitar and pick in his hands.

Far from where most of the action is, no one really notices him there besides the workers. Oddly, Felice Collins chooses the window seat of the table in front of his as she walked into the coffee shop. No one sits in this area. This place wasn't really packed most of the time anyways.

Felice waited patiently, drumming her fingers against the table, admiring the artworks hung up throughout the shop. Her eyes adverted towards the boy strumming lightly on his guitar with his brows furrowed in concentration.

She wonders if he comes here often, and if he's from around here. She practically knew everyone in this town, but she's never seen him before.

She saw his hand twitch as he wrote something down before his head tilted upward so his eyes could meet her gaze. They locked eyes for a good five minutes before her order came. She bid a thank you to the waiter. She turned back to see the boy take his gaze away from her and continued strumming some chords.

Her eyebrows knitted in confusion. Who stares at someone for a good five minutes and not do anything? Okay, maybe she was being a hypocrite. She heaved a sigh.

"You from here?" She said loud enough so he could hear as she took a sip of her coffee.

He lifted his head and stared at her before giving a slight smirk. He, again, went back to strumming.

He enjoyed how she looked irritated and intrigued. The middle of her brows creased and she scrunched her nose. He chuckled at her childlike behavior.

He gave the empty cup to the waiter giving a nod before running a hand through his messy hair. Writing brings out a whole new side of him. It was a love-hate relationship he had with writing. When writing, you vent out your most intimate thoughts, and some of those thoughts you'd rather not talk about.

"Y'know, it's not very nice to ignore people." The girl still persists in talking to him.

He sighed and put the loose papers into his black leather folder. He placed his guitar into its case and getting up to carry it on his back.

He walked over to her table, shocking her as her lips parted slightly. He still wore his signature smirk as snatches the napkin from underneath her cup.

"Hey!"

He scribbled some words before placing it on the table with his hand covering it. He sends her one last smirk before striding out the door.

She was only more confused. She stared at the neatly written words outstretched onto the napkin.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I am from here, Felice.
-A

•

In honor of Andy Fowler coming back from wherever he was for the past two weeks, I wrote this. I hope this gets more reads. :/

He's back b*tches. *says in Ryan's voice* And he's here to stay.