12 | chopin's nocturne op.9

                                    

                                          
     NEIL'S WORDS SEEMED TO haunt Presley for the next few days. He gave her the reassurance that he won't leave her, and that he'll stay with her, and those words repeated themselves in Presley's mind like a broken cassette tape. 
                          
     He always looked at her with those brown eyes of his, as if he feels her pain. But Presley knew he had a different pain, and it wasn't even this close to what she felt. She was right, he didn't know her, and she didn't know him.
                          
     While she had been reflecting upon herself, Neil had a mental hurricane of his own as he couldn't seem to stop himself from thinking about what Presley had blurted out. He tried to convince himself that it was just a mistake but the voice in the back of his mind said otherwise as he asked himself.
                          
     Was I wrong?
                          
     He had to admit, Presley's words did hurt. The fact that he had opened up to her wholeheartedly about his father and his passion made the words even more painful than they should be.
                          
     Todd was genuinely concerned for his friend, since Neil had been awfully quiet ever since Presley's outburst. Neil never talked about it to anyone, leaving Todd to be as confused as ever.
                          
     Presley was nowhere to be seen when the gentlemen had gathered up in the courtyard for Mr. Keating's class. And upon realization of this, Neil started to become worried, thoughts of her dagger words long gone. Where is she? Is she okay?
                          
     "No grades at stake, gentlemen. Just take a stroll." Mr. Keating says as he had chosen three students to take a stroll across the courtyard, those students being Cameron, Pitts, and Knox. It wasn't long before the started to march to the same rhythm, and upon noticing this, Mr. Keating says, "There it is." A number of students started to clap as they had noticed this as well. 
                          
     "I don't know but I've been told."
                          
     "I don't know but I've been told."
                          
     "Doing poetry is cold."
                          
     "Doing poetry is cold."
                          
     "Left, left, left right left." Mr. Keating started to chant as he marched alongside the boys as well. The three had amused smiles on their faces as they marched to the catchy beat. "Left, halt!" Mr. Keating exclaimed, causing the three and the clapping to stop to a halt as well. "Thank you, gentlemen."
                          
     "If you noticed, everyone started off with their own stride, their own pace," Mr. Keating starts to say. "Mr. Pitts, was taking his time, he knew he'll get there one day. Mr. Cameron, you could see him thinking is this right? It might be right, it might be right, I know that. Maybe not, I don't know. 
                          
     "Mr. Overstreet, driven by a deeper force. Yes." Mr. Keating then proceeded to mock Knox's walk, earning a few snickers from the boy and the others. "We know that. Alright. Now I didn't bring them up here to ridicule them. I brought them up here to illustrate the point of conformity. The difficulty in maintaining your own beliefs in the face of others. 
                          
     "Now I see the look in your eyes like I would've walked differently. Well ask yourselves why you were clapping." Mr. Keating says, "Now we all have a great need for acceptance. But you must trust that your own beliefs are unique, your own. Even though others may think them odd or unpopular. Even though the herd may go that's baaad." 
                          
      Even if Mr. Keating was having such a fun lecture once more, Neil couldn't seem to bring himself to listen as a frown is plastered on his face. He couldn't help it, but Presley's painful words just didn't wanna leave him alone, even if he wanted it to. It still lingered at the back of his mind, leaving a fresh trace of open wounds.