I groaned in frustration, ripping the page out of my sketch book and throwing it angrily into the trash. I next took the glass sitting next to me and threw it as hard as I could at my pillow, where it harmlessly bounced and rolled across the bed. I wiped off my watercolor prushed and put them away, deciding to try again later when I wasn't so frustrated. The glass study was due in three days, and I didn't have anything to show for my hard work as of yet.

        I was sitting on the wide windowsill, feeling the cool breeze off the ocean and in to my room through the open window. It was November, but still warm in Sarasota.

        I felt ashamed of myself. I had royally messed up my mural this morning, setting me back another few weeks, and now I wasn't able to do my drawing and painting assignment. I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes, and I wiped my nose as I leaned myself against the edge of the windowsill. I was doubting my skills and talent, wondering if I was choosing the right path for my future.

        I switched my music on my phone to a podcast, knowing what always made me feel better. Ross, Trott, and Smith's voice filled my ears, and I got comfortable. I let the cool air wash over me, drying my tears and numbing my thoughts as well as my body. I was unbelievably stressed with midterm critiques coming up, and it was only listening to podcasts or recording videos that gave me the luxury of forgetting all of my obligations.

        But obviously something else clogged my mind and made my heart hurt and my head throb. His laughter filled my ears and longing ached in my chest. I miss you, I told him mentally, trying to convey my feelings across oceans in hopes that he would actually hear it. Fresh tears spilled over my lashes and burned on my cheeks, leaving invisible salt trails on my skin.

        My eyes closed and I crossed my arms, leaning my hand against the wall against my back and let the abyss of darkness pull me in a momentary calm...

        Until I heard the slam of a door. It pulled me out of my sleep stiff and cold, and my contacts burned on my eyes. I gingerly wiggled myself out of my fetal position and hopped down on to my bed, pulling the window closed behind me.

        "So I got Teeth and Shutter Island for tonight's movie night," My roommate and editor, Mike, told me, pulling out the DVD cases from his back back and showing me. He plopped down on his bed and tried to fix his messy red hair. It was much more firey than Smith's, as well as longer and curlier, yet it still would remind me of the tall Hat Films member.

        What could I say? I had a thing for red hair.

        We lived in a coed dorm together, both being second years at Ringlings; the only difference being that he was a transfer student from the local community college in our home town back in New York. We had followed each other to college once I graduated high school two years after him.

        "Alright," I said a bit too listlessly. I mentally kicked myself for acting so depressed around him.

        He sighed, giving me an annoyed look. "Alright," he said, walking over and pulled a desk chair over to where I sat on the bed, "Tell me. What's wrong?"

        "Nothing," I said, trying to sound more animated. "Critiques are just getting to me," I shrugged.

        "You were like this two moths ago Manda, right when we returned from summer break. It can't just be critiques," he said, fixing me with an accusing look.

        "Well," I said, grasping for an excuse. "I was stressed about all the new classes," I pointed out smugly, acting like I had just beaten him at some game.

        "Your Youtube is suffering from it!" he exploded, suddenly very angry. "You always say its about the fans! Does that mean you can just be depressed and let all those millions of people down?" he asked, exasperated.

        "I know that! You don't have to tell me that!" I spat back at him, ignoring the question that I didn't want to reply to, "I see the comments!" It was horrible wading through the negative comments telling me I had changed and that I wasn't entertaining anymore. It wasn't just your average troll anymore, and less and less people were defending me against them. It made me sick just to think about it, and as much as I try I couldn't fix the predicament I was in. What was worse were the comments and emails from the concerned fans, telling me how happy I make them and how much I've changed their lives, and asking if I was okay. They easily excused whatever I did wrong and encouraged me to keep going. So many nights had I stayed up late reading these messages through tears and sobs.

        His voiced softened as he said, "Maybe you should go see a councilor..."

        "I'm not depressed!" I shouted quickly, squashing the suggestion.

        "They say stress can induce relapses for patients who..." Mike started.

        "I'll fix it okay?" I said, cutting him off, not wanting to hear the same thing he's been telling me for a while.

        He stayed quiet for long time, playing with a string on his jeans. I sighed, appreciating the silence as the conversation ended. I went to grab my sketchbook and continue with my drinking glass study when his head snapped up and he gave me a surprised look. "Is this about a guy?" he asked quickly.

        I cursed to myself, annoyed that he knew me so well. "No!" I said defensively, but he wasn't convinced.

        "It is, isn't it?" he asked incredulously. I watched as the tumblers in his head clicked into place.

        "No, of course not..." I said weakly, knowing there was no use hiding it now that he knew.

        "That's why you sleep in his sweatshirt every night and I can hear you sobbing into your pillow!" he said happily, as if he had just solved a murder case.

        "N...no..." I said even weaker, embarrassed that he had noticed. I felt my face flush red as how stupid it sounded when he said it.

        His eyes darted to the sketchbook on my bed for a brief second before they returned to my face. There was a silence as neither one of us moved or even breathed...

        We both dove for the sketchbook at the same time. "Mike...no...I...stop..." I said as we wrestled for the large book. He was much larger than me, so obviously he won out in the end. He flipped open to the most recent drawing and my blush deepened as it was a half done drawing of me and Smith for my portraiting class.

        Even though only the hair was done on Smith, Mike recognized him. "Hat Films?!" he accused, "Really?!"

        I buried my face in my hands, knowing it was futile to hide it from him. When I didn't reply he leaned in, obviously expecting a story. I swallowed and began explaining about Minecon and how I met Smith. I expected just to give him the basics and not go into details, but by the time I reached the part where I stupidly rejected him I was babbling about every detail through my bitter tears.

        He sat quietly, not giving any reaction until I finally ran out of energy and trailed off. He didn't seem to think I was as pathetic as I felt, nor was he said that it was all in my head and Smith didn't actually feel anything towards me. "What's wrong with a long distance relationship? he asked when he was sure I was done.

        "You don't understand," I sighed, regaining my composure, "we'd both get hurt, it would never workout..." I trailed, staring down at my sheets. "Besides, he's so much older than me," I continued, "I feel like a stupid kid around him. Or worse, just another fan." I frowned.

        "Manda, four years is hardly an age difference," he said, giving me a skeptic look.

       "When he's 23 and I'm 19 and still in school it is!" I said, frustrated.

        "You should just move there," he said plainly, and I thought he was joking until I saw his face.

        "You can't be serious," I scoffed.

        He just nodded as if he had it all figured out. "You can transfer schools next year," he suggest, "there's gotta be art schools in England." I didn't reply, I just gave him a horrified look so he continued, "Listen, I'm going to Austin after this year and I don't expect you to follow me there..."

        "I could," I said quietly.

        He ignored me. "Once I'm gone there's nothing keeping you here. Your moms already in Europe and you could easily get accepted into any college you want. Not to mention that your super smart and an amazing artist, but you're also famous," he pointed out.

        It sounded like a good plan, but I didn't want to get my hopes up to have some complication come up and crush me for good. "So I go there for the next two years and then what?" I asked a little too harshly, "I either continue on or I find a job," I said, softer this time, "Here at Ringlings the best animation corporations will come and shove me into a high paying job after the career critique senior year. I doubt I'll get the same opportunities in England."

        He stayed quiet and considered this. I had considered that I won this conversation until he snapped and pointed at me. "Yogscast," he said, and I almost saw the light bulb go off above his head.

        I rolled my eyes. "I'm supposed to be the irrational one in this partnership," I told him.

        "No, no, listen," he said, waving his hands in front of my face to silence me. "They'd kill to get you on their team, do you know how much revenue that would bring in? And you need a new editor once I leave anyway," he pointed out. I didn't like the idea of breaking up the system we had together, but he was getting excited now. "You could do an internship there!" he said, jumping up.

        I groaned, annoyed at how much this idea appealed to me. "They don't have an internship program there! It's not like you interning at Roosterteeth," I said, exasperated.

        "I'm sure you could easily convince them," he said, checking his watch. I opened my mouth to reply but he stopped me with a hand, announcing he had to go to class. "Just think about it, okay?" he asked.

        "That still doesn't fix the problem of Smith!" I wined as he collected his things, "he doesn't even live anywhere near Bristol!"

        He turned to me as he was walking out the door adding, "Being on the same island is better than being on different continents," and then left.

        I sighed, but I was already imagining meeting Smith on weekends and having his stay over in my dorm and...

        I shook myself out of my thoughts, grabbing my longboard and sketchbook and running out of the room, headed towards Tampa Bay.

A/N A little different than usual; I hope you like it. This chapter is dedicated to my friend Mike who always puts up with my ramblings about boys and art and veganism. Thanks.