nat watched you flaunt your pretty dresses and short plaid skirts every day at school; cute little outfits and long, straight hair that maintained your title as the college princess. a bit like regina george, but less my-little-pony-esque and more of the 2000s vibes. still cute, though. plus, you were a bit of a mean girl, sometimes a bitchy spitball of fire when something rubbed you the wrong way.

nat, on the other hand? your typical emo punk who played bass for a shitty-not-so-shitty garage band that only ever played small gigs at bars or clubs, where people are too drunk to pay attention to the quality of the music. she was the female embodiment of rodrick heffley, if anyone would even ask.

and god, was she down bad for you. anyone would be. in fact, nat would be surprised if anybody didn’t get on their knees in front of you at the slightest bit of eye contact.

so, when you’re in her bedroom (she lured you in by promising to talk about music), nat’s all eyes and ears while you yap away about songs and artists and bands. she’s barely listening— well she is, to your pretty voice, not whatever albums you’re talking about right now, though.

nat lets you talk, eyes dragging down your body shamelessly before flicking back up to your face, pretending like the low-waisted miniskirt does not show the lace strings over your hipbones at all.

“uh huh,” nat drawls, two fingers plucking the cigarette from her lips to talk, “totally.”

nat has no idea what the fuck you’re on about, but you don’t even seem to notice because you keep talking in that cute voice that nat wants to hear all day, every day.

she taps the ash off the end of her cigarette on her black skinny jeans, staring at you as if she completely agreed and understood whoever you were talking about this time.

“pause, cutie,” nat finally interrupts you, standing up, “gonna grab us some food, ‘kay?”