He Asks You on a Date | Creepypasta Boyfriend Scenarios #3
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Jeff the Killer was many things: narcissistic, psychotic, vulgar, selfish.
One thing he wasn’t, was patient.
As soon as he laid eyes on you, serving food in your bland apron, Jeffrey devised a plan. He’ll wait underneath your car for you to leave the shelter, easily identifying it by the Polaroid of you and someone else clipped to a visor. You’re kind and talkative, so you’ll be the last one to leave. Once you reach your car and everyone’s gone, he’ll attack you by the ankle and yank you forward, forcing you to the floor. You will drop your keys in the process, giving Jeff ample time to crawl out from underneath and subdue you. He needs to act fast and shut you up, as you’re not stupid and will immediately start to thrash and scream as he pins your ankles down by his boots. Another one of Jeff’s many traits is being resourceful, so he’ll have torn a piece off his shirt beforehand to use as a gag. You might not be too happy about this, so you’ll begin to scratch and kick at the man. But with the gushing slash across your ankle, you’ll quickly begin to lose strength and consciousness. In this state, Jeff will be able to knock you out with one hit to the head. He’ll locate your fallen keys and throw you in the trunk, then drive off with you.
Jeff didn’t really have a “home”, just hideouts he bounced between. Typically, he’d go to the one closest to the shelter—an abandoned building off the side of the main road that used to serve as a pharmacy—but it’d be unwise to keep you close to where you were last seen. Knowing you, you regularly volunteer at the shelter, so people will quickly notice your disappearance. It’ll take about a week at most for you to be announced missing, and everyone knows there’s no returning when you arrive at a second location. So that’s where Jeff would take you. He’ll make sure to thump you on the head pretty hard so you don’t wake up during transit, as the drive’s about three hours and it’ll be hell to deal with you if you’re awake and panicking. Jeff will probably forget to check if there’s a way to get out of the trunk from the inside, and the last thing he’ll need is for you to fall out on the highway and get run over.
Once the two of you arrive at the shitty, falling-apart two-story house in an equally shitty neighborhood, he’ll carry you inside and down to the basement. Jeff had always found it odd—yet helpful—that there was a single concrete pole in the middle of the dark, damp room. He’d never used it before, so it’ll be as if the spot was saved just for you. Jeff will have no problem tying your hands around the pole, and while you’re still unconscious, he’ll get to work on the wound he left on your ankle. By the time you reach your destination, the wound will have stopped bleeding so much and dried around the edges and down your shoe. Another thing Jeff isn’t is a doctor, so he’s not the most trained person when it comes to handling wounds. But he’ll do his best to take off the foot’s shoe and sock, disinfect the wound with petroleum jelly he’d been saving for a rainy day, and cover it up with any wrapping he can find.
You won’t be very happy when you wake up, which will likely be once you feel the cool gel against your burning wound. You’ll start to thrash before noticing your arms tied behind you, which will then bring you to scream as your eyes fall on the Jeff the Killer; with his bleached skin and obscenely visible teeth and gums. Your screams will remain muffled by the now moist gag, and Jeff will simply sit there reveling in the unfamiliar yet pleasant sound of you screeching. As your voice goes hoarse and you begin to cry, your thrashing developing into a weak twitching, Jeff will continue to finish the wrapping of your wound.
He will then remove the gag. The screaming will ensue before he grabs you by your lips.
“If you keep screaming, I’m going to have to rip out that pretty tongue of yours.”
At this, your eyes will go wide and you’ll promptly stop as you begin to hyperventilate.
“I’m not going to hurt you, okay? If you just listen to me, I’ll never hurt you. So, are we going to stop screaming?”
Of course you’ll nod. He’ll then let go of your lips. “I’ll be back soon, okay? If I come back and you’re not here anymore, I will find you and hurt more than just your ankle. Understood?”
When you nod, he’ll correct you. “Use your words.”
“Yes.”
Everything’s going according to plan.
The first one was six weeks ago.
The sun was low. You were walking out the front door to begin your patrol for the night when your boots landed with a squelch. Beneath it was what barely resembled a small bird, red splattered on your deck with stained feathers flying in the wind. The smell of death hit you like a bomb, making you recoil as you stepped back into your house—cursing yourself as you realized you'd gotten guts on your wooden floors. You made quick work of removing the bird with a pair of gloves and burying it away from where you could smell it. You did your best to disinfect where you stepped, then sat in your father's chair like always and contemplated. It wasn't uncommon to find dead animals around your house. You lived around the forest, where the circle of life thrived and roadkill was too familiar. But this bird bothered you; it was left right in front of your door—perfectly placed as if on purpose—and the sight of it was grotesque. It was as if someone had taken a spoon and scooped out all of the bird’s insides, leaving just a hole in its stomach where snapped bones laid.
That night, you did your best to forget about the bird and focus on keeping watch. However, as the days passed, it became more and more difficult to ignore how deliberate the dead birds and rodents felt. You’d find these mutilated animals every night for over a month, always placed just in front of your door, right before patrol. Their organs were always missing. The dirt beneath your feet was overflowing with small corpses by day 40, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep the stench of decay from your wooden walls.
One night, you had enough. You woke up at the crack of dawn and sat firmly in your father’s chair. You were going to sit in that damn chair, watching your damn field, until you found the culprit of the 18 rabbits, five moles, 10 birds, and nine rats beneath you. The hours went by painfully slowly. Despite the full rest you’d gotten the night before, you found your eyes closing against your will at just two o’clock. You fought to keep them open with all you had, but in the end, you fell asleep.
Jack wanted to scare you.
He knew it was a waste of energy to so meticulously dissect those small, worthless prey. Their nutrients wasn’t worth the hunt and effort…but you were. He knew your schedule like gospel. He knew when you woke up, when you collected your eggs, when you took your nap, when you ate dinner—and most importantly—when you went on patrol. He’d dedicated himself for the past six weeks to leaving you a gift every night, so that you’d know someone was there. That you weren’t alone in these woods. That Jack was watching you.
You were awoken by a doe’s scream. You shot awake, rising from the chair and aiming your rifle in front of you. But you couldn’t shoot. You were stuck, frozen. Just several feet away from you was the doe, fallen to the floor on her side. Her flesh was torn with such ease, exposing her pink ribs and the dark red pit in her abdomen. The sound of her organs being crushed by sharp canines was unrealistic, perverted, wrong.
It wasn’t the sound or sight of the doe that gave you goosebumps. It was the beast feeding on it.
You couldn’t make out any actual features. In the dark of the sunset, all you could make out was a large, black figure. Its back faced you, hunched over the doe who slowly breathed as it was ripped apart. The monster had two legs and two arms, just like you. It used its five fingers to tear apart at its dinner, just like you. But you didn’t eat raw deer. Humans didn’t click and growl against the flesh of their prey.
The old floorboards beneath you creaked as you shifted your weight, contemplating your next move. To your surprise, the monster didn’t quickly turn toward you, leaping at you with its claws extended. No. It abruptly stopped its feasting, as it slowly turned to face you. It stood up, revealing its alarming and intimidating height. It had to be at least seven feet. You still couldn’t identify anything: no eyes, mouth, or nose. Where all of those features should’ve been was just a blue oval. Regardless, the creature stared at you for what seemed like eternity.
You thought you were hallucinating when it began to move again. It turned around to grab the deer, effortlessly lifting it off the ground by its neck. What was left of its blood and organs fell out of the hole the creature ate through its skin. You choked back a cry as your legs threatened to fall apart under you, and the gun violently rattled in your shaky hands. You tried to steady your grip, you yelled at yourself to aim and shoot at the beast. But you couldn’t, all you could do was stare as the blue-faced monster tightened its grip on the poor doe’s neck. Its claws tightened, and tightened, and tightened, until the creaking of its bones suddenly snapped.
The deer’s head limply fell, and you realized you were sobbing. The monster dropped the deer like it was garbage, its body landing wrong and crooked. As you fell to the floor, your face red and puffy with thick tears, the blue face turned away from you and slowly retreated into the golden fields.
“Would you like your receipt?”
“No thank you. Have a good day!”
You left the store with your shopping cart filled to the brim with groceries. As soon as your paycheck came in, you sped to the grocery store to fill your fridge and pantry. One of your friends was coming into town and would be staying with you, and you’d been slacking on groceries so much you barely had enough to feed yourself. Today you would spend the day restocking your food, sweeping the floors, tidying the house, and deep cleaning your bathroom and guest bedroom. Not that anyone had slept in them recently, but you couldn’t remember the last time the guest bed’s sheets were washed.
As you loaded the plastic bags into your trunk, you got the sensation that someone was watching you. Staring. You turned your head around as nonchalantly as possible, and lo and behold, someone was staring at you. Not just anyone, though.
“Helen?”
“(Y/N)!”
The skinny, black-haired man jogged across the street to you. The first thing you noticed was the small, almost nervous looking smile on his lips. Helen never smiled in all the years of therapy you had together, his mouth was always straight. On the very rare occasion, the corner of his mouth would twitch, but that was it. This small, complacent smile was the happiest you’d ever seen him. You noticed as he helped put your bags in the trunk, even his eyebags had lightened up a little.
“Y’know, you said we’d see each other in passing one day.”
You laughed a little as you shut your trunk, “I guess you’re right, I did say that. How have you been, Helen?”
The small smile faltered for a millisecond and his eyes forced themselves away from you. “I’ve been doing good. Keeping busy as best I can,” his eyes lifted back up to you, “I’m really happy to see you, (Y/N).”
You smiled back at him, “It’s nice to see you too, and I’m happy to hear you’re doing well.” You felt your phone buzz in your backpocket, taking it out to see a text from your friend.
“So excited to see you tmrw!! xo”
“I’m sorry Helen, I need to get going now. But it was really nice to see you. Have a good day, okay?”
You turned around to hop in your driver’s seat, but you were grabbed by the arm and tugged back. Not too strong, but enough to send your heartrate spiking for a second. Helen’s eyes looked darker, almost like an animal getting ready to spring on its prey. The grasp on your arm was steel. You must’ve looked as fearful as you felt, because he quickly let go and fixed his expression.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to ask if you thought we could meet up properly one day. Maybe get coffee or lunch?”
You sighed internally. You were hoping he wouldn’t ask to see you again, but you knew as soon as you saw him that he would.
“I’m sorry, Helen. It’s not appropriate.”
“I’m not your patient anymore.”
“Yes, but you used to be. It’d still be inappropriate.”
Helen looked away for a minute, seemingly contemplating. When he looked back up at you, he seemed almost…distant. Unfocused. “You can’t talk to me for another two years.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s inappropriate for therapists to form relationships with former patients before two years have passed since their parting.”
You were stunned for a moment that he knew that, and a creeping feeling seeped in as you wondered why he’d ask to see you again if he knew what the professional standard was. “Yes, that’s right. So you understand why I can’t have coffee or lunch with you?”
“...yes.”
You best a smile, the same one you always gave him when he tried to further your relationship. “Okay. It still stands that I am happy to see you’re doing well, Helen. Get home safe, alright?”
Helen just nodded as you finally entered your car and quickly locked the doors. You sat there for a second, watching him in your side mirror as he stood there for a second before slowly walking off. You let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding and flexed your fingers on the steering wheel. With newfound eagerness to have your friend home, you texted them back, “I can’t wait <3”
In an unsuspecting, faded blue sedan, Helen sat stiff in the driver’s seat. He stared as you drove off, and counted to 120 before turning the ignition and setting off. He didn’t need Waze or Google Maps, he barely needed his eyes open. He made sure to keep a distance from your vehicle so you wouldn’t notice him following you home. He wasn’t mad at you for rejecting him, he knew you would, but being that close to you again and seeing your reaction up-close…that’s what he needed.
He just needed to be close to you.
BEN DROWNED SCENARIOS #1-3 HERE
You were a romantic.
It didn’t take long for Brian to realize this through his conversations with you, it made sense. The way you talked about your campus, described your study sessions in the library with a Starbucks drink, and adorned your apron with whimsical pins…you were a romantic. Despite your rough upbringing, you romanticized the mundane details of your life through decorations, fun drinks, music, aesthetically pleasing outfits, and a hopeful mindset. Once Brian realized this, he planned the most romantic, ideal way to ask you out.
When he showed up to the bar, he was wearing something nicer than usual. Most nights, he sported a black tee or hoodie with roughed up jeans. Tonight, he changed things up a bit. His jeans were cleaner and bluer. The black tee shirt was replaced with a pressed button-up, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You did your best not to eye the way the shirt pressed tightly against his biceps. After you noticed the outfit change, your eyes fell down to the rose stem he had pinched between two fingers. The flower itself was a deep red, all of its petals perfectly flourished and spread out.
You giggled nervously as he sat in his usual spot, trying not to sound too hopeful as you asked, “What’s with the get-up?”
Brian gave you what’s become his signature smile—small and lop-sided, adorable—“For a girl. I’m asking her on a date tonight.”
A sickening weight was beginning to settle in your stomach as you asked, “Oh? Does she come to this bar?”
“She does.”
“So I probably know her, huh? What’s she look like?”
Brian began to laugh. You always found yourself mesmerized by the way his shoulders and chest moved when he laughed, and you could feel the bass in his voice in your own chest. “What’s so funny?”
“(Y/N), the get-up is for you.”
You felt like you were about to throw up with how fast the butterflies fluttered in your stomach. All you could manage out was an “ah”, as Brian smiled at you and laughed behind his lips.
“So, will you go out with me?”
You could feel your smile bordering ridiculous as you felt your face flushing red. You playfully tapped your fingers on the table and tapped your chin, pretending to ponder your answer you gave him a “hmmm”. “Depends. Why are you asking me out?”
“That’s easy. Because I want to go out with you.”
“Duh, but why me? Why are you asking me out?”
Brian smiled again. “Even easier,” you swore you were getting lightheaded, “You’re intelligent, hardworking, funny, and I always look forward to hearing about your day.” He stared at you for a second before looking away and adding, “You’re also really attractive.”
You were desperately fiddling with your apron under the table, biting your lip to stop yourself from grinning at the man like an idiot. You were so focused on repeating his words in your head that you didn’t hear him at first.
“(Y/N)?”
“Huh? Yes?”
“So? Will you go on a date with me?”
You sighed and giggled at him before finally answering, “Yes, Brian. I’ll go on a date with you.”
He handed you the single rose before promising he’d give you a proper bouquet at your date; he said he didn’t now because he knew you’d have nowhere to put it. You finalized the details of your date, which would be a week from now at a restaurant, before Brian told you he had to run off to work. Before he left, he kissed your hand and wrote his number on a napkin, and you just about melted right there.
As Brian drove off to his next mission from the boss, he thought about his next course of action. Step one: get friendly with the cute new bartender, done. Step two: ask out the cute bartender, done. Step three: completely wow her at the date so she’ll go out with you again, pending. Step four: extraction.
In the 30 minutes it took you to get down from that ridiculous cage, Toby had gotten himself perfectly tipsy. He was four drinks down and the man didn’t have a high tolerance, leaving his brain feeling like slime. He put the pricey drinks on a new tab and promised to pay with cash, leaving his fake ID with the bartender as he swung around in his chair to keep watch on you. Perfect timing, because you were just beginning to crawl down, blowing kisses and waving to the people on the dancefloor who had been gawking all night. Toby watched as you bent down and unhooked something, allowing a side of the cube to swing open. But as you swung a leg to reach the floor you were suspended above, Toby watched in slow motion as your ankle twisted in your high heels and you began to fall out of the cage.
One second you were finishing your routine, stepping down from the cage like every night, the next you felt a sharp pain spread like fire from your ankle as you fell. You closed your eyes, a small scream jumping out of you as you tried to reach out for nothing. But just as quick as you felt the air take you, the wind was knocked out of you as you landed on something firm and warm.
The music had stopped and everyone was staring at you and Toby, who was on his knees and held you in his arms. Years of training as a proxy had forced him to develop remarkable speed and reflexes, and as he watched you fall, his muscles lunged and he grabbed you, pulling you close to his chest and cushioning your fall. Due to his inebriation, however, he had landed less than gracefully on his own ankle. The club was silent except for the whispers of the crowd around you two. Despite your job being all about attention, you suddenly felt quite uncomfortable.
“Wooh!” You playful leaned back and wrapped an arm around the man who'd caught you, dying to play off your fall and get everyone’s concerned eyes off you. It seemed to work, as they all began to cheer and the music started back up. As you wobbled up from the stiff man’s lap, you took a good look at him as he stood. He was out of place in his baggy, dirty clothes. He looked half dead with sunken eyes and pale skin, but you were able to feel the solid muscles underneath his hoodie and the blistering heat of his hands.
You found yourself staring at the large bandage taped to the corner of his mouth.
“A-aaa-re you okay?”
He sounded like a broken record, catching on certain letters and slurring through them. The smell of whiskey on him would've been pungent if you didn't work around alcohol.
“Oh, yeah, totally fine,” you responded dismissively, cursing when your sprained ankle betrayed you and you stumbled. Not before the strange man could steady you with his hands on your arms. Despite your embarrassment, you managed to give him a curt “thank you.” He only nodded back.
You let him lead you to the bar, where your longtime work buddy—the bartender—slid you a Screwdriver. Toby watched silently as you downed it and promptly ordered another, making sure to specify “less juice, more vodka.” You noticed how hard he was staring, with his whole body turned toward you and his eyes unashamedly looking you up and down.
“Are you looking for a prize for catching me?”
You actually laughed as you watched his already red face get even brighter and his jaw slightly dropped. You placed your hands on his as he stumbled over his words with wide eyes.
“I-I- N-no, I-I’m- I’m s-s-sorry, I-I just-”
“Jeez, dude! You’re fine! I’m just teasing you…kinda.”
“O-oh, r-rrriiiggghhht.”
You stared at him for a second. He wasn’t half-bad looking, despite his sickly appearance and that weird face bandage. You wondered what was beneath it; a cat scratch? A bruise? You would never guess it was the remnants of his cheek after spending his whole childhood chewing through the numb flesh. You found your eyes falling down his body: his broad shoulders, the way his hands flexed and tapped on the counter sporadically. When you looked back up at his eyes, you noticed he was staring right back at you.
“I-III’ve never s-s-se-een someo-ooone like you bef-f-fore.”
You giggled nervously, crossing your legs and shifting your body away from him. “What, never seen a stripper before?”
“Yes, b-but that’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“You just…” he cocked his head at you, and suddenly you felt hot. “You k-kinda look familiar.”
It could’ve been the alcohol or the crowd or the music, but you found yourself getting dizzy the longer you stared at this man. And your body was heating up more and more. You shifted your legs again before clearing your throat and swiveling to stare at the crowd dancing. You opened your mouth to speak, before you remembered something.
“Hey, what time is it?”
“Oh, uhm…almost 2?”
“Shit.” You jumped off the barstool and chugged the rest of your drink, slamming it onto the counter before calling over the bartender. “Got a pen on you?” The man looked between you two and smiled, and you scoffed at him as he handed you a Sharpie.
“Give me your arm.”
Without a word, Toby stuck his arm out to you and let you roll up his sleeve. You only stared at his scars for a second before writing down your number.
“W-what is thiiisss?”
“It’s your prize.”
Toby watched as you got up and ran off, disappearing behind a door labeled “employees only.” He traced the numbers with his eyes, an unfamiliar electricity pumping through his heart. He began to snap and twist his head rapidly, the excitement in his veins causing his tics to act up. But he didn’t care, he couldn’t find the willpower to in that moment. He just kept staring at your phone number on his arm.
“Lucky you.” Toby looked up at the bartender, who was smirking as he cleaned a glass. He just hummed in response, then slammed down $100 and walked out. The club was loud, suffocating, overstimulating. Outside, with the streets empty and the sky pitch black, Toby felt like he could finally breathe past the buzzing in his head and hiccups in his heart. He looked down once more at your phone number. He wasn’t just drunk when he said you looked familiar, you really did. Toby didn’t remember too much from his childhood, but sitting next to you like that, it annoyed him how much he struggled to place where he knew you from. Doesn’t matter, he told himself. He had a means of communication with you now, which meant he was closer to finding his proxy.
Proxies balanced the line between alive and dead; not quite fully human enough to be considered living, but too animated and breathing to be corpses. Almost every proxy’s heart stopped before they woke up to this life. For Tim, he had been standing in a motel room with a shaky handful of white pills, the water held in his mouth turning lukewarm as it dribbled from the corners of his lips. He tilted his head back…then woke up in the middle of a forest. The second thing he noticed was that his clothes were different: a pair of blue jeans, stained with a disturbing shade of red, and a yellow-ish brown coat with some ripped seams around the edges. The first thing was the strap around his head which secured a mask to his face. As his consciousness slowly came back to him, he suddenly turned to his side and lifted the mask, bile falling to the dirt floor. His vision was blurry and his head pounded like a hammer to his skull. Drool dripped from his chapped lips as he heaved, his eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to center himself.
It felt like hours before he was able to stand. His throat still burned from the rush of bile and he kept his arms slightly spread to steady himself. He aimlessly wandered through the trees with dragged feet. The mask eventually found itself back on his face, the black eyes blocking his vision. He found that he didn’t need to see though, it was almost as if he could see past the plastic. Regardless, he didn’t have the mental capacity to think about it. The term “brain fog” had never applied to him more. Tim continued to stumble through the woods as the sun set, the sky turning black and the forest coming to life. Most would be scared to walk through the forest alone with no light, but Tim wasn’t. He wasn’t fearless either. He just felt…numb, walking to an unknown destination as he panted behind the white mask.
Tim doesn’t remember what happened after that night. He didn’t remember anything really; when he was contacted by that creature, how he found Hoodie, when he was assigned to his group. When he started to remember you again.
Masky was driving for a supply run when he heard his phone buzz in the cupholder. He peered down at it to read the unknown number. This wasn’t unusual, as he never saved numbers in his phone in the event that someone got ahold of the device. He also periodically cleared the phone’s data. He waited to check the message until he came to a stop sign—not like there was anyone to stop for, it was almost midnight—but he almost dropped his phone when he read the message.
Hey Timmy! This is (Y/N) when do you think you can meet up? Im free this Friday :)
Tim stared at it for a second before sighing and throwing the phone back in the cupholder, his foot falling a little heavier than intended on the gas. His thumbs tapped absentmindedly on the steering wheel, thinking over your text. Tim struggled to remember things, it was one of the side effects of his position. The higher up you were, the more power you had, but the worse your symptoms got due to how closely you had to work with the creature. Tim could barely remember the past six hours, much less more than 24 hours ago. He knew something from his past found him yesterday, but he couldn’t remember until now what it was.
He wanted to answer you. He felt his chest tightening and his stomach coiling at the thought of not answering your text. It’d been decades since the two of you were friends, he knew you had been close before. Something inside of him that he thought was long buried needed to see you again, to talk to you again, to feel what it was like to be with you again. He ached for that feeling. While on a tight schedule, he couldn’t pull over and give these feelings all of his attention, he was scared to anyway.
As he picked up his phone again and opened your text, he did his best to ignore the screaming in his head that this would end badly. That he knew he couldn’t have normal friends or go on normal dates, and that he was risking your life by pressing send.
But maybe he was just selfish enough to do it.
Hey (Y/N) friday works for me too
It wasn’t uncommon for random people to sit in on a lecture. In this particular class, there were so many people that you couldn’t even pick out who actually had this class and who was just here to listen. The only reason you recognized that this boy was new was because he sat right next to you.
You didn’t give him any attention at first. You just listened to your instructor as you quickly typed down notes on your shitty computer that could barely handle a single Chrome tab. You were saving up for a newer, better one, but right now just rent felt like an arm and a leg. So for now, you’d live with blurry YouTube and 10 minute long loading screens. The brown-haired boy seemed to be paying attention to the lecture for a time, but as the lesson went on, you noticed out of the corner of your eye that his head was turned toward you. When you looked over at him, he whipped his head back to the front of the class.
Oh brother.
You were already ready for the small talk he would attempt once the class was over. “Great lecture, huh?” “Wow, he really seems to know his stuff, right?” “What’s your major?” “Are you from here?” “Need any friends?” “Need a boyfriend?” You felt bad for those guys sometimes. They were clearly trying, but it always felt so forced. Whenever a random man asked you out, you’d always ask him why he was interested in you if you’ve never talked before. And every time, it’d be, “Your eyes are beautiful,” “Your voice is so cute,” “I like your style.” On rare occasions, he’d cut the shit and just say “you’re hot.” You didn’t even find the attention flattering, men will fuck anything with a hole.
Besides, you already had your eyes set on someone.
You noticed the new boy staring at you a few times throughout the lecture, and every time you’d turn to him, he’d turn away again. You became so focused on this guy staring at you that your social work class—which usually flies by—felt like it had been going on for hours. As you continued to sit next to him, you noticed that his breathing seemed to be louder, you could’ve sworn he was sweating, and was he always this close to you?
Something felt wrong. You always trusted your instincts about people, and they were screaming for you to leave. Your skin crawled and you felt your shirt sticking to you as you tried to convince yourself you were just being paranoid. Sure, the guy’s kinda creepy, but is he really scooting closer to you? Surely his knee touched you by accident. Maybe you just have something on your face or he wants to ask a question but is too nervous to. You couldn’t hear your instructor anymore, you stopped typing notes a long time ago. You were just staring forward as you tried to ignore the boy.
You were about to pack up and leave mid-lecture, when he tapped you on the shoulder. A small scream, almost like a squeak, jumped out of you. The people around you turned to stare, and your professor stopped.
“Everything okay, Ms. (L/N)?”
You felt dizzy with fear, adrenaline, and embarrassment.
“Y-Yes, everything’s fine. I’m sorry.”
You could hear people giggling and whispering around you as the lesson began again. You whipped your head at the freak next to you, whose eyes were wide. If you really believed it, you’d say he almost looked sorry.
Almost.
Now that you were really looking at him, you could see that he looked much younger than you, with some of his baby fat still hugging his cheeks. To be fair, all freshmen looked like babies to you. His iris’ were almost black, the whites around them tinted red like he’d been smoking. He looked deathly pale, and was awfully skinny. His frizzy brown hair curled where it met his shoulders, and there was a messy braid closest to his face.
He whispered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spook you.”
You didn’t respond, you just stared at him. If he didn’t get to the point soon, you were already clutching your bag to get up and leave.
“Could I have your number? I’m new and don’t know anyone, so I don’t have anyone to text for notes.”
“Why’re you asking me? You could’ve asked any guy, why choose a woman sitting by herself?”
At that, he stopped. You were ready for the pickup line, when he finally responded, “Honestly, I didn’t choose to sit next to you. I was just rushing to sit down somewhere so I didn’t look lost, and I figured I could just ask you for your number since we’re next to each other.”
Unfortunately, you believed him. You remembered your first day of class and you practically ran to the first empty spot you saw. When you’re new, it feels like everyone knows, and you just want to blend in so people stop staring. Over your three full years at the college, though, you’ve come to realize that it doesn’t matter if people are staring. It doesn’t affect you unless you let it.
“Okay, sure.”
The boy practically glowed at that, as he fumbled to tear a notebook from his backpack. He handed you a Sharpie and you quickly scrawled your number and name. He looked at it and smiled, and you heard him quietly whisper the letters.
I’m about to scribble out my number.
“My name is Cody,” he looked back up at you with that same chubby-cheeked smile.
“Alright. Text me if you need notes, I guess.”
And even though the lesson wasn’t over, you slung your bag over your shoulder and practically ran out of the building. You need a nap or something. Cody was beaming, he felt like he was about to faint from the high he got from talking to you. He was a little hurt you didn’t recognize him, but he didn’t blame you. That was so long ago, and you’ve been going on to such bigger things than that little foster home. To Cody, everything was too small for you. You were larger than life and deserved anything you wanted. You deserved Cody, and he had every intention of giving himself to you.
