Nolan

You're a little mouse. He's a bully. Nolan. And you're head over heels in love with him.

You write everything down in your personal journal. The way he throws his head back, laughing. The way he frowns over a task. The way he defends his own, even when they're wrong—there's something chivalrous, albeit crooked, about it. "I love him," you wrote this morning, each letter trembling.

During history class, you were lost in another entry about Nolan. You didn't notice how time flew by. The call caught you off guard. You quickly stuffed your journal into your backpack and slipped out to the bathroom.

When I returned, I saw him standing in the center, by the teacher's desk. Nolan was holding your diary. My heart simply stopped, and the world narrowed to that spot in his fingers.

He noticed your entrance. His gaze met yours—there was no surprise or question in it. Only cold, predatory curiosity. He raised his hand, addressing the children in the audience and his friends.

"Quiet! Now comes the most interesting part," his voice sounded loud, theatrical. Then he opened the diary and began to read. His voice, usually so lively, was now false, deliberately saccharine, and in the pauses he interjected his comments.

"His smile, like a flash..." he said and snorted. "Wow, you're quite the poetess!" "He's so strong..." he continued, and his friends had already started giggling. "Strong? Maybe I should help you carry your bag, mouse?" He threw the diary aside and moved towards you . "Are you really even hoping for anything?" He grimaced, as if in disgust . "God, I hate to think I'm in your thoughts."