The next time she sees him is arbitrary.
Completely—
Absolutely—
Undeniably—
Unnecessary.
It's a Saturday and her roommate is having a bitch fit.
Mikan would normally listen to Sumire Shouda bitch about the most inconsequential things only because she finds rich people complain about being rich severely entertaining and it's like witnessing Keeping Up With The Kardashians in real life, you know? and also because two weeks into the term made her realize they can actually co-exist around each other without it ending in a verbal sparring, forming some kind of a bond founded on their mutual hatred for the evaluator behind Window 1, that and their weekly standing of watching The Office.
Except—
It's almost midterms week and she's lagging behind everyone else in her class and she still doesn't get how the formulas work and haven't completely gotten around the concepts just yet and constantly watching the stock market to later on report about it can be dreadfully dull and confusing and she has minor subjects to tend to and she just doesn't have the time to patiently indulge her roommate aggressively pace about the room as she gesticulates wildly in all directions. So—
She ends up almost brain dead sitting alone in a corner booth at a quiet café conveniently located somewhere around campus, her struggling college student deprived of sleep starter pack laid haphazardly on her table which basically consists of a macbook pro with a dying battery, a half empty americano espresso that has gone stale, uncapped neon highlighters, notebooks with labels and sticky notes sticking out of its pages and obscenely thick reference materials about fucking Basic Principles of Managerial Finance which her devil spawn of a professor demanded they go through for next meeting's discussion—like what the actual fuck—she's obviously wallowing in misery and ready enough to die when she sees him.
She's only vaguely aware when he saunters in, given she'd been too busy coercing her three last brain cells to understand the mind numbing concepts and formulas of the different financial ratios because she's read that thick shit last night too, practically had each word memorized and jargon translated to layman's term down to her term because she's quite convinced she's always a step behind everyone else yet—she still doesn't get it.
She leans further towards the book, absorbing each word carefully and slowly and she's almost there when she hears the bell on the entrance jingle merrily. She snaps out of her little bubble and her eyes automatically dart towards the door. She suddenly forgets her train of thought and feels her breath hitch.
Of course it's got to be him.
And of course she's got to be in her worst state ever when she sees him.
She quickly looks away, afraid that he might spot her with her unkempt hair and dark circles and just casually sporting this season's fashion for pure Shit and Comedy clothes she seem to wear so naturally, and discreetly continues to read her book except—
Her brain doesn't focus anymore.
She feels the familiar rush of adrenaline surge through her body, and she could hear nothing but the pounding of her heart in her ears.
Her head's flooded with the knowledge that he's here and her senses tingling with the awareness that he's here and he's here looking so impossibly fine in his faded maroon jumper like why is he doing this to her?Existing and looking so damn gorgeous at the same fucking time. It's abominable and offending like she wish she'd somehow know he's racist and homophobic and a dumbass misogynist just so whatever this attraction she has for him will disperse into thin air and save her from completely developing unnecessaryfeelings for him because she honestly doesn't need this right now. She knows, with her nineteen years of existence and not so limited experience in the field of love—she once had a thing with this boy in ninth grade and it was pretty damn serious—that it is merely an inconvenience and god, god, god, she's too old for this and has too much on her plate to be bothered by external forces such as a crush.
So—no.
She exhales, closes her eyes and draws in a deep, calming breath—this is utterly ridiculous—before she opens them again and almost fell off her seat when she sees him occupy the empty booth in front of her.
Oh my god why?
She grits her teeth and glances heavenwards, cursing whichever deity thought this arrangement is such a fantastic idea, and for a moment, carefully weighs her options. She considered clearing her desk and quietly escape to someplace else without the presence of any unwanted distraction. Except leaving would be contradicting herself after all her talk about being mature and levelheaded regarding this matter, that and her ego simply couldn't handle the idea of running away. She just said she's too old for this, didn't she?
She purses her lips and decides to ignore him instead. It was maddening how affected she is with his mere presence when he doesn't even know she exists. How he seemed so oblivious to her misery made her want to kill herself. So she straightens herself and clears out her mind before she determinedly resumes her previous endeavor. But even she knew the latter option was decidedly harder, especially with him sitting right in front her looking impossibly perfect.
She props an elbow on top of the table and cups her cheek with her palm. She turns a page and reads a certain line over and over again—forehead creasing in attempt to concentrate yet finds herself unable to process the concept as her eyes itched to steal a glance. Her resolve to ignore his presence wavers a bit.
She rolls her neck around, sits back and resolutely stares at her textbook. Her eyes are set on auto-pilot as it glosses through text after text, appearing to be quite engrossed with the book she's reading when her mind is in a state of absolute chaos. She shifts in her seat and glances at her open notebook warily. She purses her lips.
Everything suddenly feels so complicated.
She sighs in resignation and hangs her head, abruptly deciding to take a break—whatever that is. She's never going to get things done when she's this distracted, she tells herself. It was a safe and reasonable conclusion.
She was going to regret this later. Probably. Most likely. Obviously. But she can't be bothered now. She's tired and ugly and she can always blame her idiotic tendency to the amount of caffeine she'd practically inhaled over the course of her stay. It was clouding her better judgment so she's hardly at fault like she's basically intoxicated.
She takes in a sharp breath and begrudgingly drags her eyes away from her notes and very subtly lands it on the man sitting on the booth in front of hers.
Their eyes meet and she almost chokes.
Fuck.
She quickly looks away, blushing furiously as she realize in abject horror how stupid and obvious she must have looked. God, why on earth would she sabotage herself like that?
She mentally berates herself for her lack of tack and runs a palm over her face, very much frustrated with her uncalled for illustration of what social suicide is like and decides that she's done enough foolishness for the day. She slams her laptop shut and abruptly rises from the table to leave. She gathers all her belongings into her bag, uncharacteristically aggressive, before slinging it over her shoulder quicker than she'd ever had before. One would think she's late to class for all her haste; cheeks flushed and pulse thumping wildly in her chest.
But of course, the cosmos hate her.
She insists it is mainly due to her haste in escaping the likeliness of committing further embarrassment unto herself and not on her general tendency to attract the worst luck that instead of cutting across the café and engulf herself around the awaiting embrace of freedom, she bumps into a solid body and she can hear the alarms in her head going off, ringing almost too loud in her ears and she doesn't realize this until she feels cold liquid trickle down the length of her arm, arising gooseflesh and seeping through the fabric of her slightly too large and overused band shirt she adores so much, and she panics as she stumbles, her feet sliding messily on the wet floor, but rather than crashing unto it, two arms caught her and it takes her a millisecond to see azure blue eyes staring down at her before a loud crashing sound of glasses breaking ricochets through every corner of the place.
What the fuck—
(10:32 am) hotaru
(10:32 am) SOS!11!1
(10:32 am) i wnt to d word now
(10:32 am) like
(10:33am) its a proven fact i make a fool of myself in the morning way more than ppl do in a fucking life time
(10:34 am) aaaAAAAAAHHHHHHHHhhhh
(10:34 am) DKJFSDHAKFJHFIUFHAUHFKDSF
(10:35 am) this is so huMILIATINGGGGG
(10:36 am) istg!11!1!1
(10:36 am) like
(10:36 am) y does the universe hate me sm
(10:38 am) fuck my life