It wasn’t that you had ever done anything to Simon. Mostly, you left him alone. Except you always smiled at him. You were too friendly.

He didn’t hate you per say…you just…irked him. He saw you as a goody-two shoes, something as childish as a tattletale.

Simon had a habit of judging a book by its cover.

He snuck out after another dull class period, hiding out back the building smoking a cigarette. Swiped from his father of course. Old man was too drunk to notice.

You go out there as well—not intentionally following him, but alas—He looks at you, you look at him.

“Bloody ‘ell…” He mutters as if your the greatest inconvenience to cross his path. You crinkle your nose at him, what was his problem?

“Gonna scurry off to tattle now?” He mocks and blows smoke in your face.