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Futaba sat alone in her room, her hair a mess and her body clad only in her underwear and a big, old band shirt—which just for the record, she definitely didn't steal from someone's room—that smelled just like its original owner, and it was making her nauseous. If this is what having a crush felt like, it was disgusting. Yucky, one might even say.
And the guy she liked? Fuck, he was even worse! An eighteen-year-old making moves on a sixteen-year-old girl!? Gross, even if she was just about to turn seventeen. Gross!
The soft thud of her back hitting the mattress of her bed was fully inaudible to her, who was currently too busy violating her own ears with the music at full volume blasting from her headphones—that, and her own thoughts, because Futaba Sakura would never be able to catch a damn break, it seemed.
To say her head was conflicted would be an insulting understatement. On one side, she still thought Ren was gross, and was so very tempted to never hang out with him ever again just to avoid those sickly butterflies in her stomach. On the other side, she wanted to see him every single day, to speak to him every day, to hang out every day, maybe she would even let him touch her... No! Now she was just trailing off! This paragraph was supposed to be about her brain's polarization, not her raging hormones!
Futaba tossed her glasses aside before furiously rubbing her hands against her face, up-and-down, up-and-down, like it was going to help her case in any way.
Her hands were cold and skinny, and pretty soft aside from the one callus on each of her wrists—which got her thinking about he-who-shall-not-be-named-anymore all over again. In comparison, his hands were so much bigger, and he was so tall, and she herself seemed so tiny when she was with him—and in retrospect, maybe she should've let him carry her in his arms that one time, or let him keep going that other time when he was apparently about to kiss her—and then there she was, trailing off again.
Also, had she taken her meds that morning? She couldn't quite remember. Oh well, going a day unmedicated never hurt anyone.
Back onto the topic—it was so, so upsetting! He was a pervert, preying on a young girl, and here she was, practically getting off on the idea! And god fucking dammit, he was as much of a loser as she was, just scarier-looking, even if Futaba liked to make herself believe she was more scared of him than she actually was. And good lord, did she like to think of him as scary, almost as much as she liked to see him being scary.
Well, the house was empty, so maybe she could just... release some tension without anyone knowing. She'd be quick, with just her own fingers and her imagination to aid her. But just as she was about to slip her hand under her panties, her plan got sent to an early grave by a knock on her door followed by a sickeningly familiar voice.
"Futaba? You there?" Ren's tone, so unaffected by the same turmoil that was currently happening in her mind made Futaba want to hurl.
Oh she was there, alright. Completely dishveled, under-dressed, and a few nanoseconds away from touching herself to the thought of the very guy behind the door.
The gasp that escaped her was far louder than she intended, her hand immediately retreating as she scrambled to get up from her bed only to end up falling to the floor in a particularly ungraceful manner. Ouchies.
Ren had apparently heard her fall, because of course he had, he wasn't deaf and the sound she'd made—more akin to a dying animal than to a girl—would have worried anyone. So he went and opened the door with no warning, planning to help until he actually saw her and only managed to stare. Or maybe the sicko was ogling her, Futaba couldn't tell from where she was, lying with her back on the floor and her legs somehow still on the bed.
For a while none of them spoke, so they just stared.
"... Wait, isn't that shirt mine?"
"..."
"...?"
"Get out."