Oh Compass, My Compass,
Ten points to Gryffindor! Mr. Ava is, in fact, my keeper. He's not all bad, I feel like I have to defend the guy since he's not here to do so himself... though if he was, that would be weird. Moving on, I like the class well enough – the view from my desk is ESPECIALLY admired – but geez is it a snooze fest at times.
And to answer your nosy question, Chemistry is the only class I don't have a single friend in, and the girl I share a station with rarely shows up. You think I could manage to pour my heart out and draw while my teacher waxed poetic about Much Ado About Nothing?
Hell no.
And call me out on it if you want, but you're not the kind of guy who strikes me as liking to watch the sunset with a mug of hot chocolate in hand on Sunday afternoons. Your sentences are choppy and to the point. And it takes a lot of reading between the lines to get your personality to come through. I'm sure if we bumped into each other in the hallway you'd apologize and move on, not spare a single glance back.
You've got places to be, people to see, and time is a currency you don't like doling out.
Which brings me to my thought of the day: What's a guy like you doing still talking to a guy like me? Wild goose chases aside, you don't seem to mind the 'novels', but I'd caution myself to think there's something else at play here.
I'm gonna pass the question over to you this time:
What's Eating Captain Clean?
With Speculation,
Dr. Quacks.
P.S. I'm mildly unimpressed at the lack of Duck Tale references.
YOU ARE READING
YOUR ONE LAST LINE |✔️|
Short Story*Watty's Shorts Winner, 2020* While cleaning out empty lockers during detention, North Kingsley comes across a battered textbook filled with off-beat and personal messages written in awful handwriting. On a whim he writes them a message back. Days...
