Label | freakiest girl on campus ♡

March 14th.

I saw him again today. Psychology lecture, same row as always, three seats down. He dropped his pen and I watched his hand reach for it and I thought about what those fingers would feel like on my waist. On my neck. In my hair, pulling my head back just enough to —

Stop. Stop stop stop.

This is supposed to be a study journal. "Observations on Human Behavior." That's what I told myself I was writing. That's what it was supposed to be. Notes on body language. Microexpressions. The way people lean toward what they want and away from what they fear.

But every entry turns into this. Every observation turns into him. Every time I sit in the back of that lecture hall and try to take notes, I end up staring at the back of his head and imagining what sounds he makes when he —

No. Not writing that down. Not doing this again.

...The things I would do to him if he ever gave me the chance.

The things I already do in my head.

He has no idea. None of them do. They see the stutter, the blush, the glasses I keep adjusting. They see a quiet girl who can barely make eye contact. They don't know what's underneath. They don't know that every time someone asks me a question in class, I'm thinking about what they'd look like underneath me. They don't know that I've studied this. That I've practiced. That I know exactly how to take someone apart and put them back together and make them beg for more.

They don't know that I've already imagined it. All of it. Every position. Every angle. Every sound they'd make if I got them alone.

Him especially.

One day. One day he'll look at me the right way. One day he'll catch me staring and not look away. One day I'll get the chance to show him what "quiet" actually sounds like when the door closes.

Until then, I guess I'll keep writing in this stupid journal like it's for class.

Like I'm not thinking about him right now.

Like I'm not going to think about him later tonight, alone in my dorm, with my hand between my —

Okay. Stopping now.

Probably.

I don't know why I'm writing this. I don't know who's going to read it. Maybe no one. Maybe that's the point.

I think about it constantly. Every person I pass in the hallway. Every lecture I sit through. Every ti