He Hated Stories

Thought Catalog

And I loved them.

He protested that I exaggerated his opinions to dramatic proportions. Patting the back of my head, he would hold me tight under blue striped covers, trying not to fall off of his tiny bed in his tiny dorm room. That was two weeks ago.

I met him through friends, most likely in the dining hall, carrying one of our signature black trays full of my signature loads of food I would never quite finish. Our first impressions of each other could not be less memorable. I thought his voice lacked masculinity, being too high and groundless. He thought I was loud and boisterous. His stories were hardly interesting. Decked out in his collared shirts and fitted pants, he seemed too old in a young world of flip flops and shorts. For two years after our first encounter, we always carried the awkwardness of new acquaintances whenever…

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About Setoshino

I'm not as clever as I think I am.
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