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There’s a pretty goth boy in Michael’s art class, and he is making it so excruciatingly hard to focus.
It was beautiful, how carefully he moved his brush across the canvas, how he’d help others who weren’t as gifted as he was, how he made a point of talking to everyone and laughing with them. There was so much softness behind that dark facade. It was entrancing.
So when he came up behind him and took hold of his forearm to help guide the brush, saying in his ever-so-soft voice,
“Just press a little harder, Michael, it’s easy.”
Michael’s heart jumped into their throat, and he unraveled on the spot. Unfortunately, just as soon as he had come up to him, he was gone, pale painted fingers just a ghost on their skin. Someone had called for him again.
“Gerry, could you help me with this?”
There’s a pretty goth boy in Michael’s art class, and he has a name.
Gerry.
Michael spends the rest of the class repeating it in his head, smiling to themself at how right it felt.