daydreamers

ii.

Her fingers delicately wrapped themselves around the #2 pencil. She blinked slowly as she drew a vertical line next to the others. It was day eight without him. This felt like déjà vu to her, except this time she wasn't marking the days that he had been in the ground.

"Cassiopeia?" A familiar voice hummed.

The girl pried her eyes from her notebook and was met with dozens more.

"Sorry, what?" She asked softly, her teacher raising her eyebrow at her.

"I asked if you would like to contribute to the conversation," Her teacher spoke smoothly.

She gulped, feeling her cheeks grow an apparent and embarrassing pink.

"Yes of course," She hummed and quickly reached for the novel that rested at the corner of her desk, untouched.

"Let's hear from a few others and we'll get back to you, alright?" Before Cassiopeia could respond, the older woman was already calling on another classmate.

She closed her eyes briefly for a moment before frantically flipping through the coffee stained pages.

"Chapter eight," A quiet voice breathed out.

Cassiopeia lifted her head slowly and made eye contact with the boy next to her. Sepia orbs burned into her honey colored ones.

"Thanks," She choked out, flipping the pages backwards.

"Yeah, no problem," He curled his lips into a small smile before turning away.

--

Atticus. Sickly sweet, witty, an avid bookworm and co-editor of the school's literary magazine.

He checked almost every one of Cassiopeia's boxes yet he just wasn't him.

Back in October they had worked closely on an article surrounding Manhattan's annual cultural fest. They discussed Shakespeare's poor portrayal of young romance over hot macchiatos, bickered over Picasso's true muse and thoroughly dissected the foreshadowing in Lord of the Flies.

It didn't come as a surprise to Cassiopeia when Atticus arrived earlier to the café one chilly morning with her usual order waiting in her spot.

She felt her stomach do flips as she slid into the booth across from the grinning boy.

Talking was easy, it had kept her mind from wandering to murky, unresolved crevices within her. But she knew casual talking wasn't on the table for today.

"I can't," She blurted out suddenly, her hands instantly gripping the glazed ceramic mug. She raised the drink to her lips, letting the hot liquid burn her throat as she managed to swallow.

He raised a questioning eyebrow at her, "Are you alright?"

"I don't know," She choked out, searching his eyes for the question she knew was coming.

He chuckled before reaching into his bag and pulling out his Columbia University water bottle.

"You can't tell me your throat isn't on fire, Cass."

Cass. Short and sweet and not Cassiopeia. She was a new person, and her old name had died with him.

Atticus knew of Rafe, only from what he had seen in the national paper. Murderer, psychopath, the Devil. Atticus nearly spilled his coffee the first morning they sat together as Cassiopeia mentioned she was romantically involved with him.

The girl took a few gulps out of the bottle, tasting the sourness of a lemon he must've have squeezed in that morning.

She shakenly placed the bottle down on the table and pushed it in front of her. A half smile appeared on his lips as he reached for it, their hands brushing for a brief moment. It made her want to vomit.