Before We Lit It Up

6| After

⬆️ My best friend doesn't like that song, but I do, and it fits this chapter, so too bad m3v113 🙃 

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I had known it was going to be huge, that there would be thousands of students, but holy I wasn't expecting this.

How the hell am I not going to get lost?

The New Student Orientation isn't starting until next week, but the next three days are going to be spent with – some students – meeting the dean, familiarizing ourselves – to an extent – with some of the school, meeting our advisors, and getting our schedules. Harlow is just as clueless and nervous as I am, so she wasn't much help in the morning.

All the students who got in because of scholarships from the school, get to meet with the dean. As if saying, 'we reward you with this, but now you have to meet the scary principal.' Quid pro quo.

Harlow and I are one of the lucky – and unlucky – ones. I'm probably being ungrateful though, definitely being ungrateful, so I turn to Harlow, who's already glaring at me as if she can read my thoughts.

But her glare goes away, and reaching up, she puts her small hands on my shoulders, shaking me once. "I'm not supposed to go from here, I'm meeting my advisor in another building." She looks down at her phone, with her emails open. "I think. But don't stress over things, calm down, and know that it's okay to want a break. You wanted this, and you got it, but don't push yourself too hard and doubt yourself."

She gives me that 'inspirational speech' for a while longer before turning around and hurrying away. I watch her retreating figure for a while before pushing my glasses higher up my nose and walking to the building in front of me. Students buzz around me, most seeming nervous like me, freshmen I assume, while others are more relaxed, chatting away as they walk.

The moment reminds me of my first day at high school, except this school is at least ten times bigger, and there are thousands of more students.

Trying not to freak out about it, I climb up the stairs and push open the glass doors. Inside, there are trophies and frames on the walls, all concerning art. The floor gleams, my sneakers squeaking over them as I pass the chairs lining the room and take a seat at one

At eight, come straight to the offices, mine has my name over it.

It isn't eight yet, still fifteen more minutes, so I sit and wait. Other students enter the building, passing where I'm seated, and going to the hall in the back, entering offices of the advisors. Two of those students are late, and two are early but don't bother waiting. At least, if my time studying them was enough.

Leaning back, I take out two of my best forms of distraction, a sketchbook and music. Flipping to a blank page, I smooth it out before pulling out headphones from my backpack, slipping them on, and playing something random. A part of me worries – like it always does – that I'll get too lost and lose track of time, but I don't focus on it much as I twirl my pencil in my heads. Leaning down, my hair forms a curtain around me, blocking most of me from the world.

Without even realizing it, I sketch out a familiar alleyway, capturing a design I shouldn't remember as well as I do. Familiar painted walls and designs. Those days play over in my head as I sketch it, hand moving over the paper, but mind elsewhere.

Words repeat in my head. "Maybe I just want you."

"For someone so straightforward and unashamed, you often doubt what others feel for you."

More and more, moments and words and kisses. They are images running through my mind, words playing in my head over the music, feelings surfacing from the past. Nostalgia can be such a pain sometimes. Bittersweet, except the memories are more bitter than sweet. They're acidic because they make me angry and depressed. Not at him, but other things and other people. Mainly being fate and my stupid decision.