I live for clichés. Sitting on a Parisian rooftop, reading poetry in the early morning when the air is crisp and cold, soft kisses peppered across the face, romantic bouquets, walking as if on air throughout an art museum, every corridor empty except for me, pressing post-it-notes with messages to all the walls of my apartment, being unable keep myself from gasping as the heavy burgundy curtains of a opera house reveals beauty. I want it all.
Ivar had been staring at you for almost the whole of maths
and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking at him. You were
feeling a bit angry and Ivar ‘The Cripple’ Ragnarsson was hardly going to make
you feel better. This morning the girls had got a lecture from the teachers
about the shortness of skirts because apparently we’re all sluts or something.
You didn’t understand why anyone cared, it’s a skirt and it’s not going to
affect what you do. But you’d hardly been listening as the teachers said they
were worried for your safety, as if some pre-pubescent boy was going to find
his hand down your pants.
You saw it as an insult that they’d even consider
that you’d get off with the boys in your year. They were hardly models or even
half decent at that. Ivar Ragnarsson wasn’t ugly, he was actually very
attractive. But there was a catch, as there always is. He was possibly the
biggest fuckboy you’d ever met. Not to mention he was so annoying that when he
spoke it made you want to cry.