Stupidly, the very first thing coming to my mind upon finishing the letter is how his handwriting is better than mine. I'm not a particularly deep person. Perhaps because of this, the second thing I think is how badly and how suddenly I want to meet this guy, wherever and whoever he is.

Then again, if what he said is true, then he’s probably dangerous. Haha-let's-play-volleyball-with-this-guy's-glasses kind of dangerous. He's-into-poles-not-holes-let's-harass-him-for-that-and-that-only kind of dangerous.

You’d think now, in the twenty-first century, with all the gay rights and GSA's and the like they would in fact stop bullying people for their sexuality. We live in a cruel world, however―sometimes unintentionally so. I’ve heard a few of them say they, and I quote, that they “Totally support fags!”

Anyway, pretty handwriting. Maybe he altered it for anonymity purposes. Maybe he's pretty too. Pretty evil, pretty sad, pretty pretty.

Either way, it’s time to stop lingering around lest he finds out who I really am. If what he said is true, then he thinks I’m a girl, which makes me wonder if he would’ve placed the letter knowing I’m gay. People tend to get stupid sometimes. Everything’s going perfectly fine until you tell them your sexuality; cue ‘Do you like that guy?’ ‘Do you have like, a separate hole for that?’ quips. Let's just say I'm too scared to find out what a yaoi hole is.

With me contemplating the letter like an idiot and time not caring to stop, the bell rings. I quickly sink the letter into the depths of my backpack, slam the locker shut and scurry off to class.

***

Somebody trips me.

It’s kind of stupid to think, literally, somebody trips me instead of using my arms to block the fall or something.. I still take the stupid route. Once I'm on the floor, they laugh.

You’d think this is the part where some hand picks me up and belongs to a really hot guy who tells me, “Are you okay?” with a voice that could melt iron before we look at each other’s eyes and realize we are the letter’s writer and reader, respectively. Cue random fireworks and pink bubbles and the rest of the class watching us in awe as we FALL! IN! TRUE! LOVE!

It's not, sadly.

Doesn't keep me from fantasizing.

“You gonna stand there all day?” a voice grumbles, as its owner punts my side. I sit up, reaching out for my backpack, then give the owner of the much-less-than-orgasmic voice a glance; blond hair, strong jaw, evil glare. Doesn’t seem like lonely guy material to me, but I digress. “What?” he barks, “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

The guys from earlier laugh because they're predictable.

"No, thanks,” I mumble before fleeing to my seat—no, not at the back of the class, at the corner. Some guy had already taken the spot. Instead, I sit far enough at the middle that desks are less desks than part of the landscape.

The kick hurts more than the fall.

As the class begins, I am tempted to take out the letter and reread it. My mind strays off math within minutes, off to the realm of, well, guys. I'm also predictable. What does this guy like? What if he like? Would he care if he recognized me? Would I care? I'm not the best frame of reference, but he does seem to have a hand at writing. Maybe he does so in secret? That would be... pretty cliché, to be honest.

Doesn’t keep me from fantasizing.

Maybe he’s taller than me. I’m around the six feet of height and like guys being taller than me, which is probably why I’m still single. But this guy, maybe he istaller, and secretly into guys, and manly as hell with a muscled chest and chiseled abs and all. Maybe he has that 'mysterious' factor. Maybe he's smart (he definitely sounded like he's smart) and even—gasp—able to hold a remotely interesting conversation.

As if to snap me out my delusion, the class’s door bangs open. In walks a guy with his fringe a bit too long storming into the classroom. He doesn't even bother to greet the teacher or apologize for coming late and the teacher, used to this, pretends not to notice. As he heads to his seat he must’ve caught me gawking because he hisses, “What?”

I look away. Oh, boy. I know how these things go. Whoever sent the letter ought to be someone with a grand entrance and, so far, the closest ones to earning said spot have been the blond asshole and this brown-haired asshole. They could be bait. I hope they're bait. I hope I'm just overanalyzing the situation. The teacher, again, bother interacting with the brown-haired asshole, and so she continues writing gibberish on the whiteboard. Funnily enough, both assholes sit together.

Blond asshole nudges brown-haired asshole's arm, to the latter's disgust. "So, Isaac," begins the blond asshole, "What's up with being so late?"

"None of your fucking business."

The smart, tall, mysterious tortured soul could walk into the class at any moment. I can feel it. He'll bash the skulls of these two together and then we'll prance off into the sunset. Seriously, though, if it hadn't been for the 'Isaac' thrown around I wouldn't even have remembered the brown-haired asshole's name.

I've got to pay attention.

Blond asshole isn't quite as friendly anymore. “Is it my fault they caught you doing whatever it was you were doing? No, right? I was just trying to talk, you piece of shit."

“I wasn't doing anything."

“Whatever."

I feel almost tempted to glance at them for a second. Then again, I can’t risk it. Throughout the following three periods of eavesdropping, however, I come to realize that a) the blond guy’s name is Victor b) he isn’t gay c) or maybe yes, since d) he does talk about dicks a lot d) more precisely, his own, and how about he named it after a conquistador. No signs of the tortured soul. What a life, what a life