Dawson is- most people who don't know him would say- as straight as they come. And senior year away from home promises to be a big year for him: no parents in sight, a whole new set of friends, he just seems to have it all. Not to mention that all t...
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IT'S BEEN TWODAYS, two hours and thirty-four minutes since Dawson last talked to Maisie-Rae.
Ever since their locker-room conversation happened, she's been missing in action and it's not hard to figure out why. So far, she hasn't told anybody about what went down between them-- Dawson kissed her, she rejected him-- because none of others seem to be aware of the reason why she's being so absent lately.
Even Calliope, her best friend, seems confused and disoriented by the situation. She's been awfully quiet during all their gatherings, and even Dawson knows by now that that can't be good news.
He feels guilty and it's not a good way to feel, especially when your undefeated selfishness is making damn sure you keep feeling like that for as long as possible.
More than anything, he wants to do the right thing. Problem is, he's scared. Being alone is not good enough for him anymore now that he knows what it's like to be around them; now that he has found people to call friends.
Even good old Milo would ditch him in the blink of an eye for Maisie-Rae's sake.
Dawson grunts in his pillow, then slams it to the side of his body, right where Othello is lying. He hurriedly reaches out for it to make sure the nasty impact didn't do any structural damage to it. His fingertip brushes across the pages of the closed book and something flies out of it.
He glances down at his chest. It's a lined piece of paper, inked by the same unreadable handwriting. It looks like a poem or a draft of a poem. As soon as Dawson's eyes find the hasty signature, something inside him immediately forces him to look away.
A.M.H.
Was he meant to find it? Should he read it or suppress his curiosity? He probably shouldn't pry. But what if...? No. It's personal.
He undecidedly glances at the paper once more before ultimately making up his mind.
He must return it.
To avoid any possible incoming second-guessing, Dawson springs up from his bed, grabs his favorite pair of sneakers and starts hopping around the room whilst trying to put his shoes on.
He glances at his reflection in the mirror, messes up his hair a little bit-- unaware of the reason why he's doing it in the first place-- and takes off.
Adam's door is ajar, but not enough for Dawson to see what is happening inside the unfamiliar room. He knocks twice with confidence, but he's growing nervous by the second and sadly for him, anyone can tell. He's impatiently tapping his foot and his eyes are frantically darting from the ceiling to the floor to the hallways in a failed attempt to go unnoticed.
