violet skies / michael clifford

make it up to me

5. how will you make it up to him, jessa?

When sunrise makes itself apparent through the blinds of my window, I have barely got any sleep. His texts have kept me awake, and I've been reading his last one over and over. Still, I manage to roll out of bed, a big headache throbbing at my temples.

If it weren't for the texts, I probably would think it was a lie and that it never happened. I swear to myself not to read the messages after having agreed to his invitation. But I can't.

michael: how will you make it up to me? 😏

michael: meet me tomorrow

jessa: yeah okay where?

I kind of regret sending the message, because he seems to have taken my stupid message more serious than I intended it to be. But then in a way, I like the way he seems eager to meet up. Just thinking about him thinking about me excites me, and can feel millions of butterflies rushing through my body.

I just can't help it. I'm stuck in a vicious circle of hoping and wanting to give up. When the clock strikes seven, I figure I should. Michael has seen the message two hours ago, but not responded.

Maybe my response was too quick, and I seemed too eager; guys like him might want some mystery. There is nothing mysterious about me.

Am I looking too much into it? Have I scared him away? I'm getting lost in my thoughts when it occurs to me.

It's a joke.

My stomach twists at the realisation. Somewhere deep down, I want it to be real. The messages and the invitations; it probably is just a game to see how far he can push the girl he found on the street.

I put my phone on silent and throw it into my bag before getting ready for school. Instead of thinking about Michael, I decide to straighten my hair as a distraction. But my mind still wants to run back to him, and I end up getting burnt more than a couple of times.

Covering up the dark circles under my eyes requires a lot of concealer, and more than a few coats of mascara was needed to hide the fact that I feel like death. And still, I'm fooling absolutely nobody. The moment I step through the doors, Ashton, my best friend, has to take a double take before speaking to me.

"You okay?" he asks, and genuinely seems concerned.

Mondays are busy, since Ashton and I had decided to sign up to help out at the library before and after school. We usually hang out there, anyway. It's great for socially anxious people like myself, because people aren't really allowed to talking and if they do, at least they wouldn't tell me to speak up.

"Just tired, that's all," I tell him, putting my stuff down and pinning the name badge to my chest. I'm wearing glasses - my eyes are too tired and dry for contacts and staring at my phone all night has given me a painful headache.

All I can do is pray that nobody I know will step foot in here while I look like this.

"I can see that," he giggles, drumming his long fingers against the wooden desk.

He does that a lot, and although he's never confirmed it, I think it's because he has some kind of problem being still. Sometimes his leg bounces as well, and although we aren't allowed to, he'll spin around on the chair like a big child. I usually don't mind, as it's a part of who he is.

This morning, though, even the smallest sound feels like someone beating me in the head with a brick. "Please stop," I tell him.

"What?"

"Stop." I drum my fingers in the air, mocking the way Ashton is doing it on the table. "Can you stop drumming?"

"Oh, right. Sorry." He shoves his hands into his jean pockets, slumping a bit in his chair. He looks really sad, and I feel terrible.

"Sorry, I just have a headache."

"It's fine."

The day seems to drag on forever. I have to try really hard not to yawn whenever someone asks where to get a book they're looking for. By the end of our shift, I can almost feel myself falling asleep with my head against my hand.

And that's when a familiar person walks in.

Ashton pokes me in the side. "Purple haired guy at twelve o'clock," he whispers, letting out a little giggle.

We do this to pass the time. It was a thing Ashton had started ages ago. Usually it's just him pointing out people he thinks are cute but would never dare speak to. But today, Ashton is nodding in the direction of someone I really don't expect to see here.

I can feel knots forming in my stomach as he walks over to us. I panic, looking for the best way out of the situation.

"I need to go put some books in order," I mumble quickly and disappear behind some of the shelves. Michael's eyes meet mine for a quick moment, but I look away.

I don't dare come back until Michael has left. "What did he want?" I ask.

Ashton just laughs at me. "He was just giving me a poster thingy to put up on our notice board thing. Apparently his band is looking for a drummer. Oh, and he totally noticed your very un-smooth escape. Who is he?"

"Just some guy. I don't really know him."

"Some guy?" Ashton raises an eyebrow at me.

"He gave me a lift home the other day."

"You let a stranger drive you home?"

"I did."

"Well he told me to tell you that he was sorry about drunk texting you last night."

"Oh."

Of course. How stupid of me, thinking he was in his right mind wasting time on me.

My phone buzzes. I could almost guess who it's from. I take a quick look, and I'm correct. It's Michael.

michael: hi

michael: why were u avoiding me?

michael: you really look good in glasses btw 😁

Unsure of what to respond, I put my phone back into my bag and have to try really hard to forget about the text that had my cheeks burn a deep red colour. Really hard, because the purple haired guy has glued himself to the back of my mind, refusing to leave me alone.

-
how fit his he
that gif I'm swooning
like can I have a mikey pls
love ya always

~lauren