He started from the fireplace, which he contantly looked into as if he was trying to find it's soul, and travled to the door. Back and forth, back and forth, stare, back and forth, stare.
I hate being here. She didn't trust me because of my house, because of my name.
Back and Forth, back and forth, stare.
She doesn't trust me. Or maybe she does. Maybe she really likes me, I just can't tell, because I think about her too much.
She probebly doesn't think of me.
The clock chimed seven. He glared at it, as if it was the clock's fault that he was depressed. He went to sit down and to write an owl to Blair.
He stopped, put his quill back into his pocket,he had pulled it out thinking af owling Blair, and started walking towards the door again.
He ran smack into someone he never wanted to see again. Spica.