Farkle
There he was, that member of the intelligentsia that wore his facade prouder than any actor could.
He hated me.
I didn't mind.
I first met the dweeb with the bowl hair cut many years ago. I learnt most of my talents from him. I am but a mere pupil to him, and I had to admit I respected him as a teacher. He tolerated my story simply, because he was bored... That and he fell in love. His greatest blunder was being vulnerable to his love for was no surprise her rejection made him bitter.
She was the only one that made him feel something.
It was seven thirty, Smackle had just left me with a terrifying realization.
I thought I would be happy about it, I thought I could be the bitch I promised myself to be, and smirk at the broken youth that witnessed everything from the fire escape going unnoticed.
"I'm sorry,"
I didn't want this, I didn't know she would say that.
"I hate her," he sighed.
I whipped my head around to look at him and my eyes widened a fraction.
"Don't do this, she-"
"Has no use to me anymore," he interrupted.
I shook my head refusing to accept him reverting back to his numb state. At least with Smackle by his side he was an actual person.
"You need her Farkle," I mumbled turning back around to the view we were sitting in front of. We were at my bay window and the scene
Outside was much more comforting than Farkle's silent break down. He was quiet for a while and I took solace in his company.
"What about you?" He asked with a hint of playfulness in his voice.
"I got over it the first time you two started to go out,"
He then cleared his throat before allowing the silence to consume us once more.
"Serves you right,"