𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟑 | 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

you stand at the front of the class, like the new kid from an american high school film, shifting from foot to foot anxiously as the teacher introduces you to the students.

they look bored out of their minds, students chewing gum, rolling their eyes, making crude gestures at the teacher when he wasn’t looking, anything except looking at you. thankfully.

except for one.

in the back of the class, tucked away in the corner, was one boy. he didn’t take his eyes off you once. he chewed the end of his pencil, eyeballing you as the teacher rabbited on about the positive effects of transfer students.

the boy’s deep brown eye drills into you, the other covered by a white bandage stark against his dark eyes and pale skin. he’s certainly a sight for sore eyes (or, eye), all mysterious french allure, with features that would make michaelangelo himself cry.

your eyes are snapped away from him as the teacher starts speaking, but you can still feel his gaze following you.

“alors, parle-nous de toi.”