{Softer, Softest- Hole}
There he was again, the blonde boy who had been constantly occupying her mind. He was sitting and smiling with one of the goth girls, cigarette tucked behind his ear as he sat on a ledge guarding a bed of flowers at the entrance of the building. His deep mahogany eyes, and messy blonde hair shone brightly in the blinding Los Angeles sunlight. Once again her throat tightened and so did her frail fists, faced with the anxiety of seeing someone she felt she had completely embarrassed herself in front of. She walked as fast as she could, trying not to catch the attention of any possible spectators, especially Tate.
Once safely in her sacred bathroom stall she cradled herself in her own embrace and rubbed her bicep with her thumbs. She bit the inside of her lip and prayed to whoever would listen that he hadn't noticed her, she prayed that Tate hadn't thought twice about their brief encounter yesterday, she prayed that they wouldn't meet again.
Then, the bell rang, and she took a deep breath in and walked out into the busy crowds of busy teenagers.
He did notice her. He always did. Her pretty eyes seemed less lively, her whole aura was much dimmer. He felt guiltily refreshed and almost glad to know that even someone as seemingly perfect as Gracie Capuano, had faults, little demons they wanted to keep buried deep. He wanted badly to uncover them. He wanted to figure her out now that he was sure she was a labyrinth.
He noticed her little feet prancing as fast as they could past him, he noticed how her eyes kept their gaze firmly on the big doors of the school, and how her expression was pitiful and pouty. She looked like an injured doe hopping her way away from a hunter. She was so cute and frail like a little china doll ready to fall off the ledge of a shelf in a dusty antique store.
She plagued his thoughts like no other had before. He was always a lovesick puppy and he always had girls he would watch and fantasize over until he found a new one to think about when he held himself at night. Gracie had been one for a while, a couple months, half a year maybe. He just found himself infatuated with her ever since he saw her smiling and laughing with a group of girls, one of which he had slept with the summer before freshman year at a party. She seemed way too cool for him, and she probably was, but the interest she showed in him that night made her the girl he imagined being with every second of every day until he saw Gracie.
His eyes couldn't focus on the board. They never really could, but especially not right now. There she was, outside, speed-walking off the premises with a hand on her stomach and the other clutched over her mouth, her long hair disheveled, and her white dress fluttering about her thighs hurriedly. He felt awful for the sickly looking little apparition, he noted the guilty pleasure seeing her anything less than perfect brought him. He knew he was a sick fucker, but christ.
He looked at her a lot. Enough to pick up on little details no one else at Westfield seemed to notice. Obvious things like how if she wasn't surrounded by her usual gaggle of girls her eyes seemed so dim and lifeless. How her fingers would twitch and pull at her clothes, or her skin when she stood alone silently, so skittish. He always felt so guilty for the predatory feeling he felt in his gut when he looked at her.
He watched as she fluttered down the street getting smaller and smaller until he could barely see her anymore, then his focus returned to his teacher who continued to drone on about something or another.