Jean Kirstein is dead-set on wooing his crush Mikasa Ackerman and asks you for help. As a broke high school student with a pending rent bill, you say yes, but slowly start to regret your decision once you realize that you're falling in love with him...
For some reason, little kids have a better love life than you.
You don't know how. Little kids aren't supposed to be smooching each other and taking romantic relationships seriously, but you say this based on experience.
In fifth grade, all the boys wanted to impress the girls. It was 2012. Cringeworthy Facebook posts were popular at the time, so boys got the idea to write their silly fifth grade crush those romantic poems snatched off from the internet—you know, those ugly grainy ones that have a lot of unusual emojis?
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Yeah, those. For some reason, boys your age used to like that kind of stuff just so the girls could be interested in them. You weren't one to judge, but you obviously could do better. So after some time, you opened (Y/N)'s Poetic Services.
It sounds stupid now that you're older, but you believed in yourself way too much that you proceeded to write poems for girls. Boys would willingly go to you during recess and pay you five euros for a well-written poem and you would gladly take the job.
In conclusion, you were a young gay entrepreneur. Nothing really beats gawking at girls from afar and writing love poems about them and pretending to be their boyfriends. You knocked boys off for their money and you think it was genius. Clever.
And as a genius slash clever, you moved your chaotic services to high school, except high school's services mostly consist of three to eight-paged essays and annoyingly stupid Calculus homework. No one writes love letters and poems to impress their crushes anymore, and now that you think of it, you might need to change your business name in order to avoid false advertisement.
"Can you pass this to Ymir?"
The boy who sits beside you in Art class, Bertholdt, obediently but shyly grabs the folder from your hands. He passes it to the person next to him, Annie, then Annie passes it to the upper rows until the blue folder reaches Ymir.
As you distribute the other files, Ymir unfastens the first stack of papers and sneaks it into her bag. Connie simulates her actions, followed by Sasha, Thomas, then Mina, until everyone in the room is mysteriously fumbling around and bagging cleanly printed five-paged essays.
Your Art teacher, Mr. Berner, cocks an eyebrow and clears his throat, his curiosity intensifying over the looming murmuring in his classroom.
"Is something the matter, class? I hear murmurs."
"No, Mr. Berner," your class says in chorus. You roll your eyes and continue to distribute the remaining essays, and once done, sneak your phone out to check your Venmo account.
Easy two hundred euros. You don't know how you always manage to write ten or more essays over the course of two weeks—you're lucky that your brain hasn't given up on you yet. You're also lucky for being born a natural smart-ass, because in a life where you have to look after yourself at such a young age (as a result of your father's decision to move to the countryside), your intelligence is your only weapon to survival.
