"Hey," I say. "Don't feel self-conscious. I’m glad you feel close enough to me to express those things."
"Yeah, I guess.” He sounds unsure. "I mean, it's easy to say stuff in a letter, just like it's easier to say stuff to someone whose face you can't see."
"I get that," I say.
"But to answer your question," he says, "I've been fine, mostly just keeping busy."
"Yeah, same. I’m trying to study, but I've barely done anything. And besides, I've got two weeks left, so it's fine."
“Ah. So you’re one of those. A procrastinator.”
“And you’re not?”
He laughs. “Okay, fine, I procrastinate a little bit,” he admits. “But not too often. I’m not trying to brag or anything. I’ve been conditioned to be this way. My mum’s been strict about school and productivity since I was a kid. What about you?”
"If my parents are strict about school and stuff?" I ask. “Not really. I mean, they remind me that they're spending a lot of money to send me to school, so, you know, that makes me feel guilty when I'm not studying as much as I should be. But, at the same time, they don’t pressure me or anything. As long as I'm happy, I guess."
“That's nice.” His voice is still soft, almost too faint.
"Where are you anyway?" I ask.
"In my room," he says. "Why?"
His question makes my skin warm because it sounds like I'm trying to start something, which I'm not. I don’t want to sound desperate or like the only reason I called him is because I was horny. It’s genuinely nice to just talk.
Still, I can’t help but imagine him sprawled out. I might not know his hair colour or how fair or dark his skin is, but I know his limbs are lean and long, and his neck is slender —
“I was wondering why you're speaking so quietly,” I say.
“I don't want my mum to overhear me.”
“Fair enough," I say, rearranging myself to be more comfortable on the bed.
“What about you?” he asks. “Where are you?”
“In my room as well," I say, “on my bed.”
Silence stretches out for a few beats.
“Have you been drawing?” F asks.
“Yeah. Honestly, I should spend less time doing that and more time on school.” Every time I sit down at my desk, I last about thirty seconds staring at a textbook before turning on my drawing tablet. I feel bad, but I tell myself that practising art is more fun and useful for my future career than drawing linear graphs or exploring the themes of Shakespeare’sTwelfth Night.
“I don’t think it’s a bad thing. You’re training for your career. Will you go to uni for art?”
I hum. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so, but…okay, do you want to hear my plan?”
“Of course.”
“I’m planning to get a normal job, probably in retail, and I’ll do art at the same time. Hopefully, I’ll eventually make enough from drawing to completely support myself. But if I feel like I’m not getting anywhere or improving after a year, I’ll go to uni. Maybe for art, or maybe for something else. Probably for art, though. I can’t imagine losing interest in it. Anyway, I know the artist thing is a bit unrealistic and that there are safer, more stable jobs, but…yeah.”
“It’s not necessarily unrealistic. You’re talented.”
“You can’t say that without seeing anything I’ve made.”
“That’s because you won’t show me.”
“I’m shy.”
