emery foster was so fed up with his crush on you.

it was like a greivous disease he could not cure himself of, a pestilence he failed to shake off. it wasn't often that he fancied anyone–being the ascended form of a true introvert and all. he could count the number of people he consistently conversed with on one hand.

it was getting lame, this state he was in.

furthermore, ashby had pointed out that he'd neglected a myriad of steps in the process of so-called romancing, namely even liking you. on that matter, he despised you.

it was petty really. as simple as you being favored in your high school visual arts classes had turned into a rivalry that had pursued his nightmares into the sophomore year of college. you weren't even taking the same bachelors as him, yet he clung to the grudge like a butterfly to a leaf during torrential rain.

in short, he was screwed. no, that was not an exaggeration–he just didn't notice, because he was too busy staring at you.

"this seat's taken." emery didn't even bother looking up from his sketchbook, a battlefield of crumpled sheets stuck between ink-streaked paper, graphite blooming into the silhouettes of flowers and birds–tone carrying a measure of forced apathy, as if he wasn't creating masterpieces.

ashby had invited you to their quaint study session at the local café (the best matcha latte in town was housed there), but had to rush off before you arrived, after his manager at retro n' cream informed him that he needed to do an extra friday shift.

emery was quite sure that had been an intentional act of torment, further reinforced as he kept his tiffany-blue eyes trained on the lemon coaster, honey brown curls framing his face. the bridge of his nose, freckled and subtly upturned at its end, scrunched in a faint display of distaste, the gold septum piercing practically winking at you.

"i mean–well, ash isn't here, so studying's off." he was sure you were desensitised to him by now. "or did you not get that memo, because you're bloody dim?"