I think this book is getting way less interesting than it is, isn't it? I mean, readers come and go at will, some even quit Wattpad mostly because the fandoms they're in are slowly becoming toxic. Not to mention that Wattpad keeps being a total bitch, until to the point that people stop doing what they love to do and move on with their life, not giving two shits about their passion for writing anymore. And damb, what a long ass A/N here. Well, better keep on reading :)

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"Just close your eyes and picture it. Let your mind and soul wonder into the universe, and let your imagination set free!" My Arts and Crafts Class teacher, Mrs. Woodland says, her hands moving around in random directions, as if she is casting some sort of a spell on us. Her hand gestures make half of the whole class to giggle at her eccentric behaviour, but that what makes us to love her more.

I actually do like Arts and Crafts, but the main problem is that it is one of a few classes that Jonathan is in. And I hate it very much.

He's sitting at the second front row of the class, the very left side near the teacher's desk. Truth to be told, he's been glancing over me a few times, as if he's having his thoughts of not letting me go out of his sight. And that Winston guy is sitting next on his right, already grabbing a paintbrush and is carefully and paying full attention to draw an orange.

Winston isn't actually that good-looking, but he still has that tall, dark and handsome look on him; and what's more, he doesn't seem to have any sort of scars and bruises on his arms, which makes me more insecure than before. If anyone I know dare me to wear a short sleeved-shirt, or maybe even a tank top, I just won't. Revealing the scars and bruises to someone or just anyone I could trust, is my worst nightmares before my dad and my stepmom.

"Hey, Evan." I blink my eyes to see a familiar tall Irishman staring down at me. He must've noticed why I was so out of place. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? You look like you're in distress," he asks in his Irish accent, as I look down on the white empty canvas in front of me, still having that man-thing or whatever on Earth he was, named Brian, in my head. He was rather strange, a creature that I've never seen and heard before. Was he a demon? Was he an undead being? Or maybe a some sort of a mutant?

But his 'tail'---I think?---was like smoke, but more like a stream of flowy glittery bluish-purplish cloud of fog that trails from his behind. And the kiss . . . Goddamn . . . That's another topic to talk about.

"Hello? Earth to Evan? Knock, knock. Are you home?" His voice enters my head again. Thanks a lot, you tall fucking potato-loving Irish leprechaun. "Gosh, can you at least be quiet for one second?" I snarl at him, as I notice his greenish-brown eyes narrow down somewhere at me---which hopefully is not around my neck because of that sudden tattoo I got out of nowhere.

"What's that on your neck?" He points his index finger at the right side on my neck. "And how the hell did you get all of those hickeys?" He gasps, but luckily Mrs. Woodland already letting her students to start painting whatever our minds can grasp to. "You got a one-night stand or something? Especially with you-know-who . . . ?" He nudges my side gently, smirking as he actually 'ships' me with Jonathan. He and the gang know about this, but they don't really know that we broke up. I'll probably have to tell him now, but that would freak him out and get attention from the whole class. I guess recess is the only time where I can try to explain them what really happened to me.

"Nothing. But I'll tell you and the guys during recess. It'd be easier since," I pause to take a short glance at Jonathan, who's struggling to draw the outline of his odd drawing of a raccoon, "Jon and me are like . . . Having some complications."

"Wait, you and him brok---" David's sentence is cut off when Mrs. Woodland suddenly stands next to the door, getting all of our eyes on her and got ourselves quiet as she begins to speak. "Class, this is Brian Hanby. He just moved here from Dublin, Ireland. Let us all give him a warm welcome, shall we? And oh, Brian, you can sit on that empty sit next to Evan. For now, let's continue with our paintings and get going with each of your presentation about what you've drawn on the canvas. And I'll be given to you another fifteen minutes before we start your presentation."

"Ooh, a fellow Irishman!" Says the tall man excitedly, since he's Irish and it is a rare thing to find some in this school. Though Craig, the youngest among the seven of us, is actually a Brit but he's probably a few that schools here.

Great. Just damn.

Brian is gorgeous, and I know this without making an eye contact and even if he just walks pass me and just sits on his place. And now the whole class is starting to whisper to one another; the cool guys look like they want him to be a part for the sports team, while the popular girls giggling and probably start to dream over him---possibly having thoughts to date, and just losing their virginity and might even cheat on their boyfriends for him. The nerds, the not-so-popular students, they just roll their eyes and focus on the class.

"Damn, he's smoking hot---He does look sexy---Why is he so attractive?---I think I wanna hang out with him---You barely even know him---He's perfect for our soccer team!---No way! He's gonna be on my football team, so suck it, man!"

Everyone seems to be whispering about the new kid. But I don't think he's even new.

"Hey, Evy," I hear his voice calling out to me in a lower tone, his Irish accent got me feeling a bit turn on since I recognize the voice. It's like my head being beaten by a thousand drums but I'm not sure what am I even feeling and thinking about. It's rather weird, because the 'drumming' noise inside my head is starting to get louder and louder whenever I look at him for one second.

His hair, his face, and his clothing style that makes him nearly look like that terminator cyborg from the Terminator movie series. Everything about him is perfect and very similar . . . But the blue eyes, they're like appearing straight out from my bad dreams every night. My inner child is getting out of me, and he knows this person is.

No, not a person. The drumming noise, it keeps beating, louder than sirens---just louder than bells. But it's also sweeter than heaven, and hotter than hell.

As I look up at him, I meet his inhumanely pale face, finally seeing him eye to eye, as I notice a curve forming on one corner of his lips; a flirty smirk plasters on his face while I ignore the fact that David is talking about something on the background, my mind wanders off again and I remember what happened last night . . . And who he was when I was just a mere toddler.

"Remember me? Your soon-to-be forever soulmate?"