devoid of enthusiasm, the girl had trudged through hallways full of chatter as if they were TRENCHES —— yet her head doesn’t bow with surrender. her posture slouches, but gaze never betrays her inner turmoils, instead bumping fists with fellow thrashers in a subtle attempt to delay her arrival. when she does reach her destination, however, much to her disdain, palm nudges the door open, intent on making a beeline toward her table at the back. but her plain is foiled with immediate intention: chloe’s certain the action is deliberate, eyes narrowing in on the blonde bitch who’s invading her territory. now, her footfalls stride with steady pace until she’s adjacent to the other, arms folded.
” SPOILER ALERT, queenie —— not your fucking desk. run back to your corner. “ the profanity spills, sharp and quick from typically slurred speech. her conflicts at present are sufficient a problem to deal with: this preppy wannabe royalty was not something chloe was willing to tolerate. not today. with that, satchel ( once pristine, now worn, torn, stained and littered with badges representing various bands ) is dumped upon the floor. a brow raises, expectant: the clock ticking at the forefront of the room seems loud and prominent. time is scarce, and the beanie-clad female is running out of patience in rapid succession.
