that's metal

denial.

that goddamn piercing

          that's what you always told yourself. the only reason you found terushima to be the center of your afflictions was because of that miniscule ball of metal on his tongue. other than that, there's no reason you found him attractive. not his two-toned undercut, not the way you could just see his muscles contract every time he moved, not the way his eyes squinted every time he saw something he wanted-

-shit.

          you looked up from your medieval history textbook for the umpteenth time that hour. it was a subject that came easy to you, so you had no reason to not finish the reading within the 25 minutes allocated for it. your professor really had no desire to lecture on just the Tudor lineage, so he left it up to you. after pretending to read the page to seem busy, you looked up, and he appeared again. it wasn't your fault, your eyes travelled there instinctively. they knew which seat he resided in, exactly one forward and one to the left of you. he was smiling, for reasons unknown, or reasons that really weren't there at all. the sun from the window back-lit him to create a mirage of a god among men

          knowing you were staring for too long, you looked down again, praying that time itself would move just a little faster- it didn't. the small words on the page were starting to give you a headache and you reluctantly looked up again. your previously craned neck felt relief; until it moved again to look at terushima.

           he turned around, seemingly done reading as well, and you shook your head, pretending to look at the clock behind him. the textbook long closed and forgotten about, his slender arm reached toward you, and in its grasp held its own piece of scripture.

note passing. immature; and you liked it.

          this is wrong. you don't find him attractive, you can't. you did your best to hide your dilated pupils by adorning an uninterested squint and hesitantly grabbed the note. its penmanship was considerably neat, but did not follow a straight line. in classic teru fashion, he used a green pen.

"i know you have a watch. don't act like you have to decipher an analog clock on the wall. whatcha thinking about?

-teru xo"

          the second you wanted time to slow, it betrayed you. your professor had already dismissed the class, and you had the time to hastily scribble one word. teru had a reputation for leaving class as quickly as possible, especially when he had practice right after.

          you stood up, folded the paper, dropped it on his desk, and went back to packing up your supplies.

           he had to have read that note ten? twenty times? it was a simple response, but it held layers of intention and insinuation. teru dropped the small verse in his gym locker and jogged to practice, but not after looking at it one last time.

"you."

          teru ran twenty laps; you. he stretched his arms; you. he served a ball; you. you had consumed him. sure, he had thought about you before. "the hot broad with the wide eyes" is what he called you when his teammates questioned his love life. but he knew your name. he's said it many times: asking for a pencil, apologizing for bumping into you, between heavy breaths when the only thing he could process was you and the way you gripped a water bottle.

          maybe he thought about you a little too much. but it was different when you were simply a pretty thing he could look at. now, with one word, you had wedged your way into his life, and manifested yourself as a conscious being. you really fucked up his fantasy.