fun ; phan

one

I'm not exactly what you'd call 'liked'. Being five foot makes me an easy target to pick on, so that's how it is. I never seemed to grow after the age of twelve, so I'm stuck at shorter than everyone, even all of the girls. I don't get that much bullshit from people anymore, though, I am currently walking through school to go to get my cast off from when someone broke my arm. I'd probably get at least twice as much of this shit if people knew that I live in an orphanage, so I suppose that's a plus. I don't mind it really, I spend my time either at school or at the park, and sleep there, so it's fine. I'll get out of the place soon anyway, cause I turn 18 in a few months. Then I'll have nowhere.

Thankfully, the corridors are empty, as it's the middle of a lesson, meaning that there's nobody to bang into me. I rub my tired eyes, hearing muffled shouting from the classrooms I pass, and letting my feet carry me as I keep my head down, until suddenly I'm crashing into something, and then everything's tipped on its side. 

"Oh, shit! Sorry!" The person shouts, and they extend their hand to help me up.

As soon as I'm back on my feet, I plan to run, but there's a hand on my shoulder holding me in place. "You alright, kid?"

I crook my head up, seeing who they are. That's Phil Lester. Phil fucking Lester. Sure, we've never talked or interacted at all, but he's friends with assholes, so I can only assume he's one.

"I'm not a kid!" I shout, crossing my arms with some difficulty, being that my right one is still covered in a bulky and uncomfortable cast.

"Oh, sorry! You're Dan, right?"

"Y-Yeah," I stutter, but I don't know why. "why aren't you in lessons?"

"I'm skipping rugby practice today, so I have a free period. Did you just get that cast on?" He asks, gesturing far down to the obvious. I feel even smaller than usual around him, him standing at at least six foot.

"Actually, I'm just going to get it off," I state, eliciting an obvious sense of surprise from him.

"Oh, how come nobody signed it?" He asks, gesturing to the blank canvas again.

"Why would someone sign it? I don't have friends."

"You don't?" He asks with something that sounds like genuine concern, but it can't be.

"I think it's pretty obvious. So, can I go now?"

"I want to sign it!" He exclaims far too enthusiastically, messing up his mop of deep black hair.

"Wasn't it your gang of friends that did this?"

"My friends? Oh, my 'friends'. They're assholes." He says, pulling his bag off of his bag, and pulling out what I assume is a pen, hunching over and holding my arm with gentle hands, scrawling down his name, I think. He could be writing 'loser', or a lot worse.

When he lets go of me, I twist my arm around to see, and sure enough, it says Phil Lester with a heart.

"Wh-What's with the heart?" I ask, looking up, but he's gone.