You and Bill were alone together. Alone together in your own house, standing in front of a window that was briefly illuminating your faces from the bright sky outside, conversing. Recently, you’d found a romantic poem in your backpack written for you, and since you and Bill had sort of an unspoken thing going on, the obvious answer was that he’d written it.. but when you referenced it to him, he let out a sheepish, borderline confused laugh.

“W— W-was that in the play?”

Bill asked with a slight smile on his face, which only lasted for a few seconds while his eyes focused on you, only to disappear again as he looked out the window. Now you were confused and responded:

“No, the poem.”

You realized Bill hadn’t written the poem, and now you were both equally as confused as the other. You thought he’d written the romantic piece of writing for you, and he.. didn’t even know such a thing existed.

“Oh,”

Bill laughed awkwardly.

“I— I don’t really know much about.. p-poetry.”

Bill stuttered. You both looked away from each other, and suddenly, the air between you two grew tense and awkward. Bill felt as though he’d screwed something up, despite his confusion on what you meant by ‘the poem.’ You obviously expected him to know.

“Um, just— just so you know, I ..I never believed any of the rumors.”

Bill says softly in an attempt to break the awkward silence.