Art was a textbook male manipulator. He knew it, you knew it— the whole school knew it. With his floppy blonde locks, The Smiths playing in his earphones, with that pout on his face whenever he was caught out. He had those crocodile tears ready to go whenever he needed. Art knew exactly how to keep you coming back to him.

But he pushed you too far. Fucking the girl next door was never going to end well, he'd messed up big time. You had no idea how long it had been going on for, you didn't ask. Took Art a year to finally make you his girlfriend, and it only took three months to fuck it up. Art knew those crocodile tears weren't going to work on you this time. No mixtape could make up for this. Not even a shitty song he wrote could get him back in your good books.

He'd do anything to go back in time, have you sat on his bed listening to old records again. Art had been doing anything he could to get you back, hadn't even text another girl in weeks! That's real good for Art. He'd just been filling up your voicemail instead. For the first time in his life, he was genuinely pining after a girl. Not the other way around, Art was chasing for the first time.

Art had one more thing to try. It had worked in the movies you loved, so he knew it had to work on you. Boombox in hand, lifted up above his head as he stands outside your house. Eyes looking up to your bedroom window, the speaker at full volume as 'All I Need' by Radiohead blares out.

He can't even care that you look unimpressed when you open your window, because you're looking at him. And that's the most he'd had from you in weeks. Art sets down the boombox, turning the volume down slightly.

"Baby, I'm sorry, 'kay? Can you just come talk t'me?" Art shouts up to you, hands shoved into the pockets of his baggy jeans. The song keeps playing out, as he keeps staring up to you leaning out your window. "You're all I need, babe." He continues, signature pout on his face.