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a bunch of bullshit written by a bullshit teenager with a bullshit hobby. tho it's not like I update that often
She Had Flowers in Her Hair (3/?)
have you noticed I have no idea what the hell I was doing with this

You meet Ren.

The next day you go in for work, you’re weighed down by all the heavy as s**t (yet still fragile as ******** oh ******** oh ******** you think you heard something snap you ******** up you ******** up oh s**t) equipment that you have to bring into your new workspace before you can actually do anything. At least the place isn’t cheap enough to not have a dark room.

You find your journey blocked by some short Asian guy with flipped hair and a ridiculous amount of piercings. He’s blocking the exit, and he’s grinning at you.
You adjust the pile of items in your hands warily, eyeing him with your best unnerving stare. Neither of you say anything until you reach the door, and you manage to get your mouth open before he interrupts you.

“’Undercut, kinda tall with the longest legs I’ve ever seen, smooth brown skin and grey eyes to kill.’ That’s you, right? Though personally I’d add in ‘killer eyebags’, ‘bad posture’ and ‘a fashion sense so bad it could kill.’ I hope you don’t mind, the description was making me expect some sort of model, so I gotta deromantize it for the next guy! Don’t wanna turn this into some bad tween novel, you know how it is.”
You don’t know how it is, to be honest. Somewhere along the way your words get lost in the stream coming out of his mouth. The silence stretches out as he stares at you expectantly and you stare at him blankly.

“…It’s Chaitna.” You finish lamely. Why does everyone have to be so keen on socializing with you? All you want to do is get your damn equipment in the damn building—

The Asian guy literally cackles, a sound so loud and full it actually startles you a little. “I’m Ren!” He greets with a grin, and raises his hand up halfway like he wants a handshake before putting it down like he remembered your own hands were kind of occupied. “They told me if I wasn’t careful, you’d say that too. Here, you want help with that, right? s**t looks mad dangerous.”

You deem him okay, but mostly only because he used ‘mad dangerous’ in a sentence. What a nerd.

aaand since that one was short--!

You change your mind.

Ironically, the first group you work for is the Botany department, and you find yourself hating every single stupid writer.

You also learn that Skylar isn’t in the botany section, but instead works in the ‘dirty buisness’ section, as everyone likes to call it. You’re not sure what the real name of her department really is, you just know she is the head writer and infamously brutal. Ren, coincidentally, is a photographer working underneath her. He explained it to you (without you asking) as he helped you with your ridiculous amount equipment.

No, but back to the point. About how all the Botany writers ******** suck a**. About how all writers in general suck a** with their frustratingly constant need to give a highschooler more books to read. ******** you, Charles Dickens. Go suck a d**k, Shakespeare.

(Which is, as Skylar excitedly ran up to you with a ‘D-did you know Shakespeare might have been gay?!’ before choking on her words and flushing, what he might have apparently been doing in the past.)

Really, maybe you were being a bit over the top. The only reason you really hated them so much was because they had – ordered, you wanted to complain, but really quite reasonably requested – told you to take pictures of some flowers.

You had been scrolling the Internet for about half an hour before you felt your sanity snap in two, and before you knew what you were doing you were heading back inside the Botany department’s office. The first thing you did was grab the closest person with a camera strapped on their neck, a cute curly haired guy who looked like he thought you were going to punch him.

“Teach me.” You hissed instead, ignoring the rather dumbfounded looks some of the people running around were giving you. Were all smalltown folk so nosy? Damn.

“W-What?” He stuttered, glancing off of your shoulder for a second. Your grip grew tighter in irritation, and you shook his collar for a moment. “I said,” You began, but promptly stopped because now the whole ******** department was looking at you.
A thought flashed in your head about bad ideas so you just silently muttered a ‘come with me’ before stalking out, and surprisingly the blondie had followed. On the way you noticed Ren had been gaping at you.

So that’s how you found yourself standing awkwardly on the scenic garden route behind the newspaper building. The male (who you noticed, had a name tag that told you he went by the name of Logan,) was giving you a rather reapproachful look, like he wanted to ask you why you had ruined his shirt and (admittedly) impeccable tie.

You let the silence stretch on a little longer to give you some time to look around and make sure nobody is watching. When the coast seems clear and Logan seems like he’s going to burst out in nervous energy, you speak.

“Teach me how to take pictures of flowers. You say simply. Logan gives you a dumbfounded look, like he had been expecting you to offer him drugs. You roll your eyes. What an a*****e.

“What’s the problem, exactly?” He begins, curiously. “Isn’t it harder to get better shots of those gritty alleyways in your profiles then some flowers?”

You feel your face flush in irritation. “Just—“ You begin, and give a groan of frustration. “Alright, how about you take a picture, then?”

After careful picking, adjusting and readjusting, Logan proceeds to take a picture. He shows off the shot to you, and you fall silent as you stare.

"It’s not like it’s a masterpiece or anything, but we’re just a newspaper. No one is going to stop by and admire your work – they just glance at it and start reading.” Logan explains. Your mouth is a tight line as you nod slowly.

You know what you have to do.

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