Why Should I?

When I ran a hand across my hair, I heard someone carefully sit behind me. I can hear their movements too. The sound of them placing their bag gently on the floor and adjusting their chairs to fit themselves comfortably that caused a little scraping sound against the floor. Just gently. I can hear them tapping their fingers on the desk for all I know.

There was someone I knew with that strange habit of tapping his fingers on the desk.

"Hicchan, we can't go on like this."

"Haru?"

"I've found someone else."

And like that, we broke up, just like normal lovers would do when one of them would find someone perhaps, better, in their standards. I grew tired from trying to fit in his standard too. I shuddered to myself, thinking of the fact that I was somewhat so intrigued by someone who throws away things once he became weary of playing with them. I cringed to myself. Dude, why him? My lips pursed, eyelashes slowly fluttering open to sit up properly. It was 7 in the morning, if I am not mistaken, and also the first day of class. Just like every school-opening, we leave our homes to attend the tedious first day, search which class we belong to at the bulletin board in the lobby, and proceed to the designated room. You'll find name tags above the table, and all you have to do is find you name, sit down, and wait for the teacher. This is what I would call a monotonous cycle in this school--I've never transferred schools before—and it's alright. Just 3 days of introductions and explaining the regulations, then moving on to regular classes after that.

"Hikari." A voice I recognized called from behind. I flinch, not daring to turn my head to meet him. Oh damn. "Hikari." He repeated in a voice that I used to love hearing. I missed it just a couple of months ago. Not now, fortunately.

"Yeah." My head remained untouched, not wanting to see the face. We're classmates? Oh sh—

"I have. . ." He continued in a low voice, almost as if he was shy to admit something. Maybe it was my imagination, maybe it was real, but for all I care, I don't wanna deal with him whatsoever. It's like returning back to a place that once welcomed you but became cold, deciding to kick you out of its doors saying "never come back". And then one day that place searches for you, out of all people, asking for forgiveness and trying to please you or so.

Today is most likely that one day.

I dislike "one day" stories. They remind me of children's books that have a smooth start and a little downfall at the "one day" part. Surely, I wouldn't think of the song of someone known as the king of pop, it's too hopeful. Sometimes you're sad but one day you hope everything'll be okay. It's too hopeful.
Going back to children's books, I recall that my mother would read them for me when I was a mere toddler, she stopped though when I was 5, she just thought I probably became tired of hearing the same 3 stories of The Boy Who Cried Wolf, Alice in Wonderland, and The Secret Garden. I never grew tired of hearing mom say words in that motherly (of course) voice of hers, it soothed me instead. The Boy Who Cried Wolf taught me that you have to stop lying. Yeah, that's what I've learned through the years. Alice in Wonderland taught me that you shouldn't go under holes that are beside trees because you'll find yourself in somewhere you shouldn't be (and it's tiring to find your way back to your world). The Secret Garden taught me that you have to meet your sickly cousin and let him help you grow the garden in the manor with that boy, whose name I fear I have forgotten, maybe Dickens? No? But yeah, with that boy who's the brother or cousin of the maid in the manor. I've learned that you'll discover beautiful things with the help of other people. This was my favorite book. Mother would take about 4 nights to read The Secret Garden to me, since I truly was intrigued by how the story would end. Would she be alone in the first part? Would she be lonely her whole life in that manor? Would she be able to grow the garden? Questions better left unsaid, since my mother would narrate those parts. I do not wish to spoil the readers who have not yet read the book, but forgive me, my thoughts are something you can't take a hold of. I also do not wish to provide you with wrong information, so I end some of my sentences with question marks, thus turning into questions themselves.

"You have what?" Monotonously replying, I rest my palm under my chin. I sat in the 2nd column (from left to right, there were 6 rows), and in the 5th row. Apparently, he was behind me.

"Never mind."

I finally turned my head to face the retard. It was a swift turn, and my hair was kept in a low braid with bangs left decorating my small forehead, so luckily I didn't slap anyone with the braid. My head turned in the right side, body adjusting itself as to not break my bones of whatsoever there is that would break, and my right arm was now placed roughly against the backrest. If I stay like this for maybe 5 minutes (I do not know, since I do not analyze clothes), the sleeves of this long-sleeved uniform would be wrinkled or creased a bit by then.
"Ha?" My eyes widened with a brow twitching and my voice rising up to the point where I almost seemed annoyed.

"I'll tell you later, and don't—" he looked away, almost as if he really was shy. What was there to be bashful of? Aren't I supposed to be the one who's embarrassed right now, and not him? "—don't look at me." His head faced his left as he covered his face with one hand. Messy brown hair. Soft brown eyes. A big hand that could hold anyone's, even a boy's, and the same hand that would bring comfort to the ones he held. I wonder how many hands he held after loosing mine?
A small, pink tint dusted across his face, I saw that before he attempted to cover his face. "I'll tell you later." His hand moved from his face to his mouth only. Covering his mouth with his hand, I shrugged, and I sighed while sitting properly once more. Before I did turn away, pure imagination maybe, I swore to myself that I saw his eyes take a glance at mine.

Black long hair in a braid. Irises in a dark shade of brown. Hands small enough to fit in his.

This is the beginning of my little story I would like to call a shoujo manga, if ever my story actually was a manga itself.

Someday, one day, I'll find myself confused in a state where I'd have to choose between which is which, between what is right and what I truly feel.

//: OSUUUUUU! Nin here!
This is a really short chapter, and I bet the next chapters would be shorter. Maybe if I'm in the mood to write, it'll be longer.
The meaning of the song (My R) doesn't really fit with the chapter, huhu, but it sounded cute as a music box.
Hope you enjoyed bruh. If I need to improve in anything, just comment whatsoever you wanna comment.
Tysm!