#graymonroe

     FUCK. will’s luck with catching the metro train is about as good as the rest of his life, which is to say, not very good at all. he’s tried the damn app and the schedules printed into little neat pamphlets and all that shit, but no; public transport just really fucking hates him and apparently today is to be no different. his sneakers meet the station’s grimy tile floor just in time to see the train whooshes away into the darkness. “ fuck. ” it’s said out-loud this time, spat out to lie with the dirt that stains the grout. luckily, there’s no one around to send him dirty looks. he does send a dirty glare down at his leg, however, as if by sheer frustration he can punish it for slowing him down AND make it stop throbbing in this godforsaken damp weather. unsurprisingly, his leg doesn’t listen. if anything, it decides to ache a little more. go figure.

                 “ oh hey ---- nice sweatshirt. ” ben sounds far too enthusiastic for someone who’s merely just run into someone else wearing a bu sweatshirt. he still thinks his is a fair assumption to make, however --- it’s not like it’s a harvard hoodie. those people just seem to magically acquire. “ you a grad? ”

BEEP x3 (love u)

[ 📲 • sms ] —— are you trying to drunk text me rn?

[ 📲 • sms ] —— you are the slowest texter ever. 😒

“If this ringtone of a drunk squirrel laughing doesn’t make you either smile or start laughing you have no sense of humor and we’re not friends anymore.”