[You Got My Soul]

2°

» "this what happen when I think 'bout you..."

School;

Paris trudged out of Chemistry, her brain completely exhausted from the cell-murdering test she had just encountered.

"Was it hard?" Bryson approached her calmly, moving her bang from in front of her face, "That's ugly."

"You're ugly. Yes, it was hard because instead of studying, I listened to how you think conspiracies are a conspiracy."

"Did you complain?" He asked while adjusting his bookbag on his shoulder.

"Nah, it was interesting, but now I'm probably failing Chemistry." Paris would rather listen to Bryson's crazy, unorganized thoughts over studying any day but this time, it had some consequences.

"No, I'm failing Chemistry. At absolute worst, you'll have a C. Quite stressin', ma." He encouraged, giving her a light push.

"Whatever, I have to get to English. See you later." Paris waved and headed to her last class of the day.

As she sat at the back of her class, bored out of her mind, Bryson was all that ran through her mind.

He was all that ever ran through her mind.

Being what she was to him was like being in the desert with a large amount of water sealed in a container so that you could never drink it.

Every part of him was at her fingertips, but she couldn't kiss him the way she wanted to or hold him like she desired.

It was an impossible dilemma that she fought with everyday. Let me love him like he loves me. That's all she wanted.

"Paris, Mr. Gilmore is talking to you."

The class was now focused on Paris, all eyes fixated to the back.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Yes sir?"

"I was saying how your friend Bryson is quite the philosopher." He repeated.

Paris let out a chuckle, "He tries to be."

"You should tell him to consider doing some writing. He's a very interesting young man."

The class proceeded on and the closer it got to dismissal, the more Paris was anxious to see Bryson; ask him about his day.

"I'll catch you later, young Tiller." DJ, a friend of Bryson's— one Paris wasn't too fond of, said before dashing down the hallway.

Bryson looked around, eyes squinted, for Paris until his eyes connected with her curly brown hair and green dress.

"Yo Wyatt," he called, referring to her by her last name, "What's the moves?"

"Well Tiller, I have 60 pages to read, want to help?" She asked, closing her locker and facing him.

It amazed her at times how calm she could be with the love of her life standing before her, laced in all his preciousness.

"How am I going to help you read a book, Paris?" He asked leaning against the mass of lockers.

"I don't know, you asked." She shrugged.

"I got invited to party." Bryson told her, grabbing her books and following her down the crowded hallways.

"So go; have fun." She encouraged, weaving through her peers. He sucked his teeth,

"I'm not going if you ain't going."

"Bryson, I told you— I have work to do. I can't go to a party, I'm already behind in the book." She explained.

"Fine," he sighed, "I'll just tell them I can't go." He concluded.

There's many elements to Bryson, all of which Paris knew like the back of her hand. He hated to be alone— Paris learned that very quickly.

"You coming to my house?" She asked once they were through the doors of their high school.

He nodded and they both began walking down the side walk to Paris' house.

Wyatt Household;

"I need some weeeed." Bryson groaned into the air. He was stretched across Paris' bed, snuggled up with her teddy bear.

"Need and want are two completely different things." Paris informed him, shaking her head.

"I want and I need some weed." He persisted, throwing a pillow across the room to where she sat on her window bench.

"Stop, I'm trying to focus." She turned a page in her book and rested the pillow in her lap.

Bryson sighed, getting up from her bed and walking over to her side of the room. He sat beside her and remained quiet as she a couple more pages.

"You smell good..." He sniffed, killing the silence. She smiled and ran her fingers through her hair.

"Thanks, it's my new perfume." Paris informed him. Bryson nodded, laying his head back on the wall.

Paris went back to her book and after a while, she started to hear soft snores. Bryson was fast asleep, peacefully in a world of dreams.

Paris took the time to admire his features. God, how perfect he was to her. She knew he was far from it— a passive, monophonic 18 year old who still didn't know what he wanted to do with his life— but something about him; everything about him was perfect to Paris.

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