I hate sleeping. There isn't anything remotely good about it, eight hours of lying still, pretending to sleep in hopes it eventually comes? And then what should I feel when it doesn't? Tired? Upset? I only feel relief. Relief that I don't have to face him again, as I do in the dreads of sleep so often. Every time I dream, its of  him. Its always of him.

Whether these dreams are sweet or not, I guess depends on the point of view. I don't know what is sweet when coffee blurs my senses with a hot bitterness that never truly leaves my lips.
-
Today had been a particularly terribly day. You'd think as a senior, Id at least get some kind of reprieve from the few that don't avoid me, but I don't. I see them snapping pictures of me from the corner of eye, and I know they are using it to turn me into a joke at my expense. Ive seen and heard it all from my schoolmates. Ive heard them mock my very voice saying ridiculous things to each other, Ive seen them tug at their own hair and pick their own fingers and Ive heard the laughter it spurs.

So when I say today has been particularly terrible, I mean it. I got to school, and saw them hoarded around my locker, scribbling profanities and any slur they could get their brains to conjure, I knew it was going to be a rough day. I could hear their laughter, and once again saw them mimicking my own problems. Shame keeps me from saying anything, even though, I know that I could kick all of their faces in.

The real panic though, settles in when I realize they took the one thing that keeps me going. My thermos is no where to be seen. Truthfully, I guess it wouldn't be that big of a deal, if it hadn't been that thermos. So I searched for a spot no one would notice me if I had a panic attack, which was inevitable. I was already trembling and rendered mute.

The tears started the second I tucked myself beside the water fountain outside the bathroom door, which was opened slightly- as if to give me my own little triangle of safety. With a shaky breath, I couldn't breath, with a shaky breath-... I put my head on my knees, and beg anything to calm me down. Thats where I am now. Trying to skip to the aftermath.

A hand settles on my head and I nearly lose my skin. I'm afraid to look up, at what this means. Who's touching me? But I already know. Beat up navy blue sneakers give him away. Trembling, I dare to look up, but like usual he's not really looking at me. Why is he touching me? Why won't he just leave me alone in every sense of way? I banished him to paper in pen, exiled him to ink and wax seals. Why has he come back?

Craig Tucker, I hate you almost more than anything, theres only one thing that can top it. I heard the door creak, watch him move it to sit beside me. He carefully rubs my back, like I could break, like I haven't already. The one thing that triumphs how much I hate him, is how much I love him. Its been kindling for years, a fire that never extinguishes. A scar that never fades. A garden that never wilts.

We don't speak. Theres nothing to say, but for the first time in years, we make direct eye contact, and I have to look away immediately. This... small incident, will haunt me forever and fill the next 200 letters like it was significant. It was. To me.

When the bell rings, he gets up, pats my head one last time, and leaves. There were no words, just the ghost of his fading form, vanishing in the crowd of students.

It was something to obsess over for another 8 years.
-
It burns, so so good, and yet, its excruciating. The things that eye contact did to me, are unspeakable. School is just background noise and I-

"What are you writing?" Terrified, I glance up. I recognize him, sorta. Hes one of the goth kids that hang out everywhere and terrify me to bits. "Nothing!" I respond, quickly, stuffing it in my bag unforgivingly. He raises a brow and suddenly his hand is in my face, and I stare at it. "Well? Don't you want help up?" He asks, curiously.

I frowned, did I? Awkwardly, I put my hand in his and he pulls me to my feet. My twitching and fidgeting has returned and my mind is anywhere but. What made Craig do that? Craig. Fuck. I cant even think his name without butterflies. I cant wait for the last of me to fall to ruin. "Michael," he says, squeezing my hand. Im suddenly aware of how clammy my hands are, why is he still holding it?

I carefully pull my hand away, "Michael," I mumble. "Yeah, okay. Ack! Thanks." I mumbled, wringing my hands together. "Right, well, you need help getting to class? I have to give Pete his binder back anyways. He mixed ours up again. You have math now, right?"

Why did he know that? Awkwardly, I nod. "What? Is it so hard to think that while you've been watching after someone, someones been watching you?" He grinned, and it turned my stomach. He's been watching me? Why? I haven't been watching anyone! Only avoiding.

"What do you-nng- mean?" I question. Im flustered, my noises are getting worse. Its embarrassing. He gives me a lopsided grin, "Well, I finally got Pete, Henrietta, and Firkle to agree we could use a new member. I think you look a lot like him." I frowned, "I look... goth?" I mumble, because, how? Nothing on my outfit is black, even my pants are chestnut brown.

"Well, no, but you could." He gives me that same, skin crawling smile. He's gotta be a vampire.