𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐨𝐧

𝟷𝟾 | 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖

"ᴘʟᴀʏꞮɴɢ: American Idiot- Green Day"
1:05 ───⊙─────── 3:35
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

'Welcome to a new kind of tension'

•—•—•—•—•—•—•

January 2, 1983

I'm so confused as to why Zane is being so bossy with me.

He's been doing it for the rest of yesterday and all of today.

Stuff like asking me if he can cheat, telling me to hole his books and do his homework, Grabbing my hand really hard.

It's all so confusing, one minute he's bossy, and rude. The next minute he's all lovey dovey, caring and sweet.

Make up your fucking mind, Zane.

It's making me question our relationship, again.

I like him, I really do. But in a romantic way? I don't know, I feel like I do, but then again I feel like I don't.

"N/n, if he's being toxic, you should just dump his ass," Mike says, flipping his backpack over one shoulder "He doesn't deserve you, obviously"

I sigh and clutch onto my backpack straps "I don't know, Mike," I look at my feet as we start walking to 3rd period "I really like him"

"Are you sure?" He brings it up again "I mean, like I said, you could be only doing it bec-"

I cut him off "Enough with the doing it for him bullshit, Mike," I shush him, placing a finger over his lips "I like him"

"You just fucking said he's being toxic and bossy" He fights back, a hint of red on his cheeks as he pushes my finger away.

I give him a look before scoffing and walking away. Mikes a bitch sometimes, and he knows it.

-

"And for homework today, you'll be writing a 2 page poem that I expect to be neatly written and detailed," The teacher says, walking around the room and handing us a blank, collage ruled paper.

"This paper will be due by the fourth of January, I won't be taking late work," She explains "This poem is to be done alone with no talking"

"If I hear any speaking, you'll be sent to the office, along with lunch detention" The whole class groans "Silence!"

"You May begin" She says, sighing as she sits down and reads a book at her desk.

Michael, as he sits right next to me, looks over at my paper and then me. "What's your poem about?" He whispers.

I shoot him a look before pushing his face away, he scrunches his nose as he fixes his hair "I'm writing about hate, you?"

"I don't know" He shrugs. I look over at him and think of something.

"Is there anyone you really like?" I ask, his head turns to me and he smiles.

"Yeah, I'll write about that, I guess" He shrugs, bringing his pencil down to his paper.

I hum and continue writing.

-

Most of the class period is done, only about ten to eight minutes left.

A bunch of noisy boys would snicker and yell across the room, causing Mrs. Smith to get mad and send them to the office.

I look over at Mike and see him fully concentrated on his paper, I chuckle and finish writing.

Finally, I'm done, I plop my pencil and lean back on my chair.

I see Mike staring at me while writing, but I think nothing of it. I twirl my hair and stare at nothing.

"Hey, move" A familiar voice calls out to Mike, I look over to see Zane trying to get Mike to move.

Mike only stares at him, not moving, "What if I don't?"

Zane puts on a confident smirk "Then I'll fight you," he adds "Spoiler alert, I'll win"

"Yeah" Mike rolls his eyes "You seemed pretty beat up last time, wait, who did that again?"

Mike turns to me, basically Asking me what side I'm on by just looking at me. I gulp and look up at Zane, seeing him do the same thing.

I hate choosing sides, but it seems like I have to. Sorry. "You did, Mike," I say to Mike, now looking at Zane "Just go, please"

His mouth opens in a O shape before walking away. Michael flips him off while he isn't looking.

He turns to me and chuckles "You choose me before him? Dang" Mike smirks.

I get flustered but I hate it, only because I know I shouldn't. "Yeah" I respond.

He nods and gets back to work, I think to myself why I still like Mike. I'm with Zane, I can't like anyone else. To be completely honest, my feeling kind of faded for Zane, he's treating me like shit, and I'm not taking that.

So a little revenge won't be rude, right?

. . .
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