And yes, usually by this time, normal people would have gotten used to the London life. But me? it'll take me years for that.
Oh, right. I should introduce myself.
My name is Y/n Wilson. I'm 20 years old and trying to become a writer. That's why I took the scholarship here. Yes, I didn't NEED the education for it, but I thought it would help.
Turns out, it was just anxiety inducing.
Fun, right?
I should mention I do have a job, and it makes steady money, and I learned how euros work and everything, but MAN, does it stress me out.
Anyway, to ease my stress, and up my caffeine intake, I usually go to this small Cafe in between my college and my flat. The cafe The Red Rose Cafe, it's really nice.
I usually sit at one of the booths near the windows, closer to the middle. I tend to be a people watcher when I'm in public because it distracts me from my terrible, horrible, no-good writers block. That or I just stare into space and forget where I am.
The waiters are nice, and usually provide you with a newspaper, just in case you're a newspaper type of person. So, of course I took one every time because I am in fact a newspaper person. Why? I usually rely on it to give me motivation to write. Never does, but one can hope.
Currently, I am sitting in my booth, staring down at the piece of paper in front me, mechanical pencil in hand. Now, you're probably wondering, "Why aren't you using a computer? It's easier AND with the times" and my only response to that: i like to keep it classy.
...and I'm not the smartest fish in the sea, but that's besides the point.
As I mentioned, I have a SERIOUS case of writers block. So bad, in fact, that I know the newspaper I discarded on the table won't be of help.
Annoyed with myself, I took a deep breath, letting the different scents that littered the cafe wash through my senses.
The smell of freshly baked goods were the first thing I noticed, specifically that of bread.
Then came the scent of the coffee that I had disregarded, the drink beginning to get cold.
Although I had absolutely destroyed its natural order by putting way too much creamer and sugar inside of it, it still smelled of its natural bitterness.
I closed my eyes, now attempting to at least IMAGINE a scenario that I could turn into a full-fleshed novel.
The sounds of dishes clattering from waitresses cleaning up customers messes, to pots banging against each other in the kitchen echoed throughout the silence that appeared every once in a while between other customers' conversations.
I smiled to myself. It was nice being able to separate each noise, trying to connect each sound to its respective source.
And then, the bell above the door rang, a gust of wind blowing through, causing my skin to have small goosebumps as someone entered.
I kept my eyes closed, expecting the person that had entered to order something.
But they never did. Instead, their footsteps approached my booth, and I heard them slide into the seat opposite of me.
I ignored them, hoping that they would get the hint to leave me alone. They didn't, to my misfortune. I felt their eyes burning holes into me, and I sighed.
"You know if you wanted me to leave, you could just ask." A man's voice said with a chuckle. His British accent left shivers down my spine.
...don't judge me, I have a hot spot for accents.
I slowly opened one eye, wanting to give a face to the culprit of the disturbance. Just my luck, he had to be one of the most attractive men I've ever seen. And not in my "daddy issues" kind of attractive.
I pursed my lips, "That takes too much work, and usually the "sleeping" trick usually wards strangers off, so..."
The stranger grinned, "Well, it didn't work on me, but if you asked... maybe I wouldn't be so imposed on going to another table."
My eyebrows raised, "And you expect me to believe that...why?"
The stranger shrugged, "Because maybe I would."
I nodded, "Okay. Then please move to another table."
His grin immediately dropped, as if he wasn't expecting me to actually ask him to move. Then, he leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. "No, I don't think I will."
I rolled my eyes, "I can already tell you're absolutely miserable to be around."
The boy chuckles, "Yeah, I'm more of what people call a, "hate to be around you, love to see you go" kind of guy."
I scoff, "of course you are." I mumble, my eyes darting back to my blank piece of paper.
"What's that?" The boy asks, tilting his head.
"My novel." I state, eyeing it with hatred.
"Well, it's, uh, very...empty. for a novel." He points out.
"That's because I have no clue what to write about." I groan, leaning over and lying my head on the table in frustration.
"Write about me then."
I could hear the snarkiness in his voice. It was quite annoying.
I lift my head up from the table, "I don't even know your name."
"Let's change that then," he suggests, sticking his hand towards me, "Oliver Martin."
I hesitate before reaching to his hand and shaking it, "nice...to meet you?"
Oh boy, this is going to be interesting.
----------------------------
WARNING: The rest of this story will be written in third person to give you the idea that Y/n Wilson is the one writing her...or your story, not me.
Your art is literally so pretty omg can we please have more of Quaritch and Spider? I like to imagine Quaritch is so overprotective of him, he literally carries him anywhere like hes toddler 🥺
discoholicmusic
yousharknotpass
origamiaround
andulkaphoto
janainaart
