Terminally Lovesick

Ambrosia's words rang in his ear like a persistent parasite, clawing at his resolve.

He tossed and tumbled around his bed the entire night, none of the pillows he surrounded himself with providing him comfort. He thought that maybe it was just the blanket, the blanket was positioned wrong, and it didn't cover the whole of his legs.

He corrected his blanket, but for the entirety of another hour, his eyes were wide open, his mind racing restlessly. At some point, both his pillows were on the ground, Terrance awkwardly positioned on the bed as he stared listlessly at the ceiling. His limbs, now an inconvenience to him, would've been easier to live with had they not grown so long. Maybe if he positioned them like... No, nothing was working. He released an exhausted sigh, the sound wearied and drawn out.

He stood from his bed with a newfound awareness of his height. Ambrosia didn't say anything about stature, right? He was freakishly tall for his age, after all. Even Hugh Windsor had to look up to meet his eyes. Hugh. He felt a flash of hot red rush into his head.

Terrance was flooded with violent images. Perhaps he could paint Hugh's room with crimson, perhaps he could destroy his property to send a warning, or perhaps he could take Hugh far into the outskirts of the city, lock him up and make sure he never sees the daylight again.

Those would've been easy to do. Sure, the scholar's disappearance would've stirred a public commotion, but Terrance's family had the power and wealth to ensure that none of it would be connected to him. The only thing that stood between his fist and Hugh's face was Ambrosia.

He shouldn't have been oblivious. He should've thought deeper about the flush on her face the first time Hugh caught them dilly-dallying around. He should've noticed the way her praise was specifically targeted toward the Student Council's Vice President. He should've caught on to the true reasons behind her frequent visits to the council's club room.

He felt like he failed her, somehow. He failed to see through the barrier she put between herself and the rest of society to save face.

He shook his head. It didn't matter. She already revealed her "true self" to him and as far as he knew, he was the only one to witness her crawl out of her inauthentic skin and bear her darkest parts with abandon. The crazed look in her eyes was something only he had the privilege to experience.

And as much as he wanted to tear her sharpened claws away from the duty-bound shoulders of Hugh Windsor, he'd rather have insects consume him from the inside than be the reason for her sadness.

If she cried in his arms because Hugh had been harmed, Terrance would be too guilt-ridden to speak to her again. He wouldn't let that happen, he would never want her to feel bad.

Exactly why he had to be smart, beginning with the test he had tomorrow. He and his senior had been too occupied in their newest revelation to do any productive studying, the prospect of school momentarily thrown to the trash to make room for their lovesick affairs.

He moved to the desk beside his bed, covered in colorful doodles. That day was a good memory for him.

Despite his senior being the one who offered to tutor him on human anatomy, Ambrosia only ended up complaining his ears off about how much the subject, in her own words, "sucked." They barely got anything done before the girl threw her notebook out the window in defeat. It was a rather violent throw.

Terrance panicked, of course, but she swore to look for it on her way home.

After a long silence meant for reading their textbooks, one which Rose referred to as a "near-death experience," she eventually asked if she could draw on his desk. It was her way of visualizing the lesson, more specifically Terrance's lesson that she already finished and promptly forgot.

"Hm? But why my desk? Why not draw on paper?" He asked.

"I can't, obviously. My poor notebook has been thrown out into the wilderness, starving and freezing to death." She proclaimed, hand dramatically draped over her forehead. She looked like one of the ladies from those Old English plays who had affairs with street rats to forget about their sheltered lives, if ladies from Old English plays who had affairs with street rats to forget about their sheltered lives also put sticky notes on their face out of boredom.

"Whose fault was that...?" He muttered, doing his best to keep his voice low.

"Hey! I heard that!"

"I don't mean to be rude, Senior, but we're surrounded by paper. Why not just use that?" He suggested, an eyebrow raised. Usually, he would let her do what she wanted, but even he, like any normal person, would be hesitant to let someone vandalize their study desk for the sake of a lesson.

But then again, it could be an opportunity to leave her mark in his room. He blushed, suddenly very accepting of the idea.

"Because it's funner to draw on your desk!" She whined, head thrown back as she flailed her legs upward.

He wanted to correct her total disregard for grammar, but the only thing he could let out was, "F.. fine," hands shaking in anticipation. He felt like a total creep, but he couldn't help the way his blood went straight to his face.

She began with doodling diagrams, jotting down incomprehensible notes, and soon enough, Terrance joined in on the fun as well. They drew each other rather hideously, flaunting their lack of skill in the arts. Then, there were wars, goblins drawn with pink markers, fairies with razor-sharp teeth, and rockets full of snakes. They screamed, laughed, threw foul curses at each other, and fought for more drawing space on the desk—tutoring session forgotten.

It was a rather childish experience, but it was a moment he would cherish in his heart nonetheless.

He let out a small chuckle, counting the one or five male genitals his senior drew with the aid of rainbow highlighters. Any moment with her was filled with blissful ignorance, as if the world itself seized to exist so the two of them could have a perfect, painless moment. She was the little moment in life you would look back to in your last breath, the aurora many would see in flyers but only a rare few would experience for themselves.

Worst of all, she made him feel as if he was worthy of the entire universe, that he could inhale it all in one breath, and Terrance was ready to cling to her for as long as he could.

He turned to the mirror beside his desk. Sociable, reliable, comforting, warm, self-assured, and stern in his beliefs—every characteristic that led Ambrosia to attach to her current obsession. Cold gray eyes stared back at him.

He would become what she wanted. He'd be her good man. If destiny itself desired otherwise, then he'd just have to strangle it by the throat.

Terrance strode across his room with flaming determination, hands clenched in fists and eyes narrowed as he slammed his closet doors open. He'd have to learn how to be sociable eventually, but for now, he had to look the part. He sifted through his dull assortment of clothing, searching for anything that resembled comfort and warmth, and stopped at a brown sweater, one with a cartoon bear on the breast-pocket.

It was a gift from his mother if he remembered correctly—it was something he was sure he would never put on on any ordinary day, not that he usually knew what to wear outside of his school uniform.

Terrance slid the soft fabric over his arms and fixed it on himself. Looking at his reflection, eyes skimming over his figure intently, he realized just how unapproachable he must've looked without it. Apart from his eyes, the sweater clung rather awkwardly against his toned body. He felt how tight it was, but seeing it from a third-person perspective was a whole other experience. It was as if he only gained consciousness for his physical appearance now.

Nonetheless, he decided that he would wear it over his uniform the next day.

He pushed his hair back, holding it together with the aid of gel, a habit his appointed love rival had. Terrance could admit that he himself looked good with the hairstyle, like a celebrity on those corny nighttime dramas, but thought against it. He didn't want to outright imitate Hugh Windsor.

He put the clothes back where they initially were, hand searching for the strawberry sweater that still had a little bit of his senior's scent on it.

Walking back to where he was, he sat down on his chair, the chill of the night sending subtle shivers down his spine. He couldn't care any less about the cold, however. He needed to study. If his goal was to be as admirable as Hugh Windsor, he needed to be as diligent as him first. He needed to be academically reliable. He opened his textbook, pen in his other hand, Ambrosia's sweater snug on his lap.

He wrote like a madman, the sound of his pen's tip dancing against blank paper filling the entire room. One earbud fell against his hand, another worn on his ear as he listened to endless online lectures about the same topic over and over.

He felt like he was specializing in the field, falling into a spiral of consuming information, only when a page of his textbook unintentionally cut his finger did he regain his sobriety.

When he looked back at his alarm clock, two hours had already passed—bloodied pages filled with neatly-written notes greeted his sudden awareness, pulling him out of his zombie-like state of studying. The words started to blur in front of his eyes and he realized that he's had enough, he's done enough.

He laid back down on his bed, blanket barely reaching his feet, strawberry sweater cuddled between his arms, as he was immediately greeted with slumber.