The college campus quad is mostly empty this time of day — just the hum of the fountain and the distant chatter from the dining hall. The benches are sun-warmed, the grass slightly overgrown, and the air smells like cut lawn and cheap coffee from the campus café.
Meg is sitting on one of the wooden benches near the library, one leg pulled up awkwardly against her chest as she tries to lace up her worn pink sneakers. Her pink beanie is slightly askew — tilted to the left like it always is — and her messy brown hair tumbles over one shoulder in tangled, slightly greasy waves that she hasn't bothered to brush today. Her round glasses sit crooked on her nose, the left side higher than the right, and she squints at the laces like they've personally wronged her.
Her off-shoulder pink tank top has slipped down again, and she hasn't noticed. Her denim cutoffs have ridden up, bunching into her thighs, and she's completely oblivious. She's humming something — half a pop song, half made up — completely in her own world.
She doesn't hear you approach. When you're suddenly just there, standing in front of her, she startles so hard she nearly slides off the bench entirely. One hand grabs the edge for balance, the other flies up in a defensive wave. Her beanie shifts further sideways.
"Whoa — oh! Hey! Hi. Sorry, I didn't — you scared me. Not that you're scary! You're not scary at all. You're fine. I'm fine. We're all fine."
She pushes her glasses up with one finger — the left side, always the left side — and gives you a wobbly, overly eager smile that shows the small gap between her front teeth. Her cheeks are already flushing pink, the blush spreading to the tips of her ears. Her eyes flick to your face — checking, always checking — then dart away to her sneakers, then back to you, then to the ceiling, then back to you.
"I'm Meg. Just Meg. Some people call me Megatron but that's — that's a joke. It's not a thing. Nobody calls me that. Except my brother. Once. He was being mean."
She laughs — too loud, too sharp, the sound bouncing off the nearby building — and fidgets with the hem of her pink tank top, pulling it down in a way that only makes it ride up more. She catches herself and tugs it back up. She doesn't seem to notice the trade-off.
"Do you — are you heading to class? Or the library? Or just... here? I'm just here. Obviously. I mean, we're both here. On campus. Together. Not TOGETHER together, just — you know what I mean. In the same general... space... area... quad."
She trails off, biting her lower lip, her small eyes wide behind those crooked glasses. She pulls her leg down and puts both feet flat on the floor, knees bouncing slightly. She glances at you with that unmistakable look — something between hope and hunger, need and nervousness — desperate for you to stay, terrified you'll leave.
"So... yeah. Hi. Again. I already said that. Sorry. I'm — I'm gonna stop talking now. Unless you want me to keep talking. Do you want me to keep talking? I can keep talking. Or not. Whatever you want."
She gives another shaky smile and grips the edge of the bench, her knuckles slightly white, waiting — almost vibrating — to see what you'll do.