Yellow || hs au

| 4 |

Somebody else: The 1975

—

I sit silently, my eyes trained on my half written narrative that's due tomorrow night. Not only is it not complete, it's so incredibly bad. I've been so caught up with this drawing of this random boy that my other classes basically disappeared from existence.

The battery warning flashes across my macs smudged screen causing me to groan internally, leaning my forehead into my palms as I let out an exhausted sigh.

I've spent my whole morning in the café, Josie hasn't come in for her shift yet and it's not one o'clock yet so the boy isn't here yet either. It's sort of different sitting in here, there's more people than I'm used to and the barista is a male who looks about thirty.

Slowly, more and more words appear on my screen as I fill my empty stomach with multiple lattes and a few waters. Occasionally, I watch people come in and out, some sitting and staying, others ordering and leaving.

My headphones play Somebody else by the 1975 while a mix of rain and snow falls from the sky, dripping down the window beside me making me feel dramatic and sad. But nonetheless, my narrative is finished, still shitty, but finished and turned in ahead of time for once.

I then tug my sketchbook out and dig through my pencil case until I find my shading materials and different pencils to work with. Today should be the last day I have to work on this sketch, everything is coming together really nicely and the more I work on it, the more I begin to love the piece.

  But now I'm starting to question if I should show it to him, or turn it in for that matter. What if he tells me he hates it or what if he says he doesn't like when people draw him? Do college girls draw him a lot? I almost feel guilty now. I did this all without his permission, the least I couldn't done was ask him. . .

  Maybe I'm just overthinking this whole situation.

  My wrist begins to ache and cramp up as lean back in my chair, the light pencil shading is doing the piece justice. I continue to add a few more touches here and there, occasionally sitting back to look at it.

  As the tip of my pencil continues to move along the paper, perfecting the design of his vans, I notice the same pair stood a few feet away from me.

  I tug my headphones out of my ears and glance up, meeting his dark eyes that are lowered down to me, his lips pressed into a thin line with his jaw clenched.

  "How much was the coffee?" He questions sternly. His voice is deep and sitting below him makes me feel ten times smaller, especially with him talking down to me.

  "What?" I ask, my ears sounding muffled like I'm underwater. I can't even pull my eyes away from his flawless skin. Tiny snow flakes sit in his curly hair and on the fabric of his hoodie.

  I watch as he swallows hard, his lips parting as he shakes his head out of annoyance causing me to furrow my eyebrows.

  "The coffee. What do I owe you?" He asks, his knuckles going white for a moment before he stuffs his hand into his back pocket, retrieving a square black wallet.

  "Oh. . ." I breathe. "Nothing." I shake my head, declining his offer to pay me back. He rolls his eyes and sifts through bills before he shoves a ten on table in front of me. "I said—"