05. vibrators.

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"Here we are," I slip off of Dylan's motorbike, adjusting the wrinkles on my clothes before reaching up to fix the scruffy mess on ny head. I would have gotten the bus this morning if I'd known I'd be spending the rest of the day adorning helmet hair.

"Thanks for the ride, Dyl." I tell him, slinging my messenger bag further up my shoulder. Then I step back, making enough room for his Harley to move.

"It's cool," he shrugs, before waving and sending a smile my way. "I'll see you later."

"See you." I wave back. As soon as he's gone, I turn around, tudging my way up the granite stairs leading into school.

"Someone looks like she's in a good mood," I turn my attention to the side as I carry on my brisk walking, and I feel Chloe nudge my shoulder with hers as she comes even closer towards me. "What'd you do, get asked out, or something?"

"I wish," I say, opening my locker with a combination of 6582. Chloe grins.

"You shouldn't wish, because we're all going stag. Remember?" she asks, pointing to the bounty of posters decorating the High School walls. All probably done by the Media students- no doubt- because apparently, nobody can know about this year's prom unless each poster decor has the workings of an over-dramatic rainbow.

I nod, not in any particular mood to contradict her today. Since we're all achingly single and have been for the past three years, we figured the smartest thing to do would be to attend prom as a group. Basically singles night, just with pretty dresses and expensive make up.

You're in school?

I read the message on my way to class, not daring to open it yet in fear of not being able to reply and having to leave him on read for the second time in the span of our two-day conversation.

Inside, I am freaking out. And I don't even think 'freaking out' is the correct way to put it.

All I wanted to do yesterday was run around my house, naked, screaming bloody murder because it only just dawned on me that I was speaking to Luke motherfucking Hemmings. And if that wasn't reason enough, the man called me pretty. I'd probably sacrifice seven of my limbs just to have him call me that again.

"Jesus, Hayes. Phones and phones, cells and cells! Give your device a break," Mr Penny, my young social studies teacher and all-around environmentalist, folds his arms at me. I give him a sheepish look before I slip my phone underneath the table, concealing it from sight.

"Sorry, sir." I say, sweetly, innocently, as I cross my legs and tilt my head to the side. As well as being a certified tree-hugger and overly enthusiastic, Mr Penny gets flustered very easily. Meaning I can use that to my advantage whenever I get into the least bit of trouble.

I lean forward, pressing my chest up against the edge of the table before batting my eyelashes at him. I see his Adam's apple bob up and down, eliciting a gulp. "It won't happen again."

This isn't the first time I've done this to him, and I'm honestly surprised at how he can still bare to be around me after all the hell I've put him through. He's a nice guy, and an alright teacher, so it's not like I'm going to do anything to ruin him. I could if I wanted to.

"Damn, Soph. You don't mess around," Chloe tells me, shaking her head in what I can only assume as disbelief. I shrug, taking all of the books I need for this lesson out of my bag.

"I just like messing with him, that's all."

"You had the poor man's face completely red. Bless him," she says in a murmur, and I join her in watching Mr Penny's every move from the back of the classroom. "You know, I heard his fiancé cheated on him the other day."

"That so?"

"Mhm. With some lumberjack from fifth street. How terrible?" she says, and although the situation is terrible, I'm an a shitty person for being somewhat entertained by the coincidental irony.

"So, he's single?"

"Jeez, don't jump straight in," Chloe warns me jokingly, and I chuckle. "Give him some time. Four days, tops."

"I wasn't going to go after him. Are you insane?" I roll my eyes, uncrossing my legs and pressing my back against the seat. "I don't date teachers."

"Right," she raises an eyebrow, marginalising one of her pages. "So who do you date, then?"

"I don't," I reply, simply. Chloe gives me a look. "I don't date."

"I thought you didn't like labels?"

"Labels, dating. There's no difference. Either way, you end up with the same person." I reply, a little more carelessly than what I intended it to sound like in the first place.

Chloe just shakes her head at me, obviously not supportive of my quite bitter outlook on relationships. As shocked as she can make herself seem, though, I know she's not surprised; the reason I can't ever get into a stable relaionship is purely because whenever I sense commitment, I run away.

I don't think I can help it. And even if I could, I wouldn't want to; dating is effort, having a boyfriend is effort, and why on earth would I settle for something that flops straight after it jizzes? Vibrators don't do that. Vibrators won't make me text them 24/7 or meet their parents, either.

"I am so signing you up to eHarmony," Bailey tells me, later on in lunch as we crowd around our usual table. Our school is huge, and certain areas of it are much bigger than they need to be; fortunately enough for us, the cafeteria is one of them. "I'm getting you a boyfriend."

"Or a fuckbuddy," Chloe suggests.

"Or a girlfriend." Bailey reinstates.

"Or just a Luke Hemmings," Ashley notes. We all look at her. "What? Might as well throw him in there. It's bound to happen at some point."

"This isn't a fanfic, Ash. Those kind of things don't happen in real life," I tell her, sounding much wiser than I am. She rolls her eyes, throwing a fry at me.

"That's just a conspiracy. Like, what the government wants you to think."

"What do they want us to think?" Chloe asks, raising an eyebrow.

"That you're not living in a fanfiction."

"Alright, Mrs Conspiracist," Bailey nudges her. "Cut with the philosophy crap. It's messing with my mind."

"Everything messes with your mind," I tell her, and she grins.

"Yeah, but talking about how the world works just makes me wanna die. I'd rather be oblivious, thank you very much."

"That's not hard." Chloe jokes, earning a laugh from the two of us and a playful slap from the other.

For reasons unknown to me, the rest of the day goes by calmly. I have the odd message from Luke, and I reply every now and then, but the thrill is gone as soon as it comes. It's as if I don't quite believe what's happening, therefore I put it off; if I don't acknowledge it, it's not there.

That same night, Dylan and Chase come over, their loud voices bursting through my front door as they argue over the stupidest things. They're probably the only reason I don't entirely despise the thought of being in a relationship; they're cute. And not in a cringey, 'I'd step right in front of a bullet for you because you are my entire being' way. But in an 'I'd rather you get shot by the bullet to be honest, but I'd definitely contribute to your hospital bill and bring you flowers every single day until you get better' way.

"Sophie," Chase huffs, plopping down next to me on the couch with his arms crossed. I raise an eyebrow at them both, putting my book down as Dylan crashes onto the seat on my other side. "Please tell him that priests are cliché."

"What?" I ask, slightly surprised at the controversy of his question.

"I never said that priests were cliché," Dylan argues, pointing a finger. "I just said that getting married by one would be going along with the crowd."

"The crowd? Of what, gay men that want to get married?"

"Oh, stop it, you know what I mean."

"We can't get married without a priest, Dylan!" Chase then snaps, looking far more upset than his tone lets on. "Everyone does it!"

"Exactly! I want to be different!"

At rehearsals...

Save me?

I want to make a stupid, pointless joke, about how I can't save him if he can't save himself. But then I realise how stupid that sounds, and how Luke is texting me in the time he needs to spend getting ready for shows, as if we're friends, so I don't.

As Chase and Dylan argue over me, wide hand gestures used to prove both of their points, I type a reply.

You should be concentrating on your guitar

Not me :)

I send it, feeling quite proud of myself for not freaking out as much as I did last night. There's a short pause where Dylan takes a break from the conversation to look at me, eyes wide as if to ask whether or not I think he's right. I just nod slowly, confused, as my phone buzzes.

That's no fun

"Did he just call you boring?" Chase asks suddenly, making me jump up in surprise, resulting in an unplanned keyboard smash and an accidental text back. "Now, who the hell is Huke Flemmings, and why is he calling you boring?"

"It's Luke Hemmings, you idiot," Dylan sighs, suddenly using his knowledge of my obsession to his advantage. I give him a small, grateful smile, happy that I didn't have to explain myself to Chase.

"Hemmings?" Chase repeats. We both nod. "Sounds like a throat disease."

I shake my head, unable to control the smirk creeping onto my face, for I'm somewhat entertained by his abilty to be pessimistic over the littlest thing.

Apparently, you're a throat disease.

Yours?

I choke, quite literally, as I re-read the message before me. Then I read it again, trying to dissect all it's different, possible meanings, and I laugh.

You wish.

"Playing hard to get?" Dylan pipes up, seemingly coming out of nowhere to whisper down my ear, and I shriek. I almost drop my phone again, and in a haste to pick it back up, I send a glare his way.

"Do you two mind?" I ask, my voice bordering on frustration. They just put their hands in the air in defence, chuckling, before resuming their previous pointless couples argument.

Ha-ha, how'd you know? :P

Oh, boy. I think, eyeing the odd text expression with a slight wince. Nevertheless, I use my own.

Secret ( :

You're cute, Sophie.

"Tell him 'thank you, I know'." Dylan says, holding a hand out to type the message himself, but I'm quick to swat his fingers away. I'm far too deep into fangirling and internally yelling into oblivion to let him ruin this for me now.

Luke Hemmings just called me cute. For the second time, in the short span of one week. The world could end right this second and I wouldn't even be mad; in fact, I'd be more than satisfied.

None of it feels real, at least not yet. I half expect the man to come out with a tweet talking about how his Instagram's been hacked, and how noone should trust any messages the annonymous may send, as well as a camera coming out from the side to tell me I've been 'punked'.

But he doesn't, and no tweets are updated, and no cameras come out. He just carries on talking to me. He asks me how my day was. He asks me how long I've been a fan of the band. He even asks me what my favourite colour is, and if I don't have one, why?

Luke asks me a bunch of different things about myself and I don't even bother to do the same, for he alreay knows that I know, thanks to Wikipedia and a bunch of old 5SOS video diaries. I'm not even ashamed. After knowing that there's a possibility he's seen every aspect of my Instagram account, there's very little left for me to feel shame over.

Later that same night, Dylan and Chase go home, and I decide to go to bed early. I text Luke a quick goodbye, and my heart flips when he asks if he can text me in the morning. Of course I say yes, despite the angel on my shoulder telling me to conjure up some lame excuse. I just can't seem to bring myself to do it.

Then I shut my phone off, slip into something more comfortable, and snuggle deep underneath the covers. The reason I'm going to get any sleep at all tonight is because- like I said- none of it feels real in the slightest. It's like I'm in a dream. I'm scared that I'll wake up any minute now, blurred eyes paired with an unrecognised social media page and a very non-mutual follow, and that'll be the end of that.

Thankfully, I do wake up the next morning, but something's changed- though I can't quite put my finger on it. Luke is still talking to me, and my phone is still blowing up, and I have still yet to reply to the group chat.

I take a deep breath in; inhaling bouts of air just to stop myself from getting too overwhelmed as a bunch of countless notifications begin to flood my screen, all regarding a picture I posted a long while ago- the caption being;

I want bruises the size of his thumbs on my hips.

[COMMENTS]

Same

wOAH WHO WHAT

nOtIcE mE mOm !!1!11!1!1!1!1!1

@katie62 us

@lukehemmings

[748 likes]

Puzzled, I click on the likes, genuinely curious as to how one simple tag comment managed to get so much attention.

When I scroll down, the blue 'Follow' bar turns into 'Following', and my mouth drops wide open at the first ever like that I have no doubts set off the other 747;

.

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