Some Blobby Boys To Start The Afternoon!

Some blobby boys to start the afternoon!

This Isn’t a Love Song (Except It Is)

by Bubbles, for Cecil—though they’d never admit that out loud. ( @scarletinq )

The classroom was empty after school, painted gold by the afternoon sun, and warm with the hush of spring. Bubbles sat hunched over their notebook, earphones half-in, pencil tapping the beat on their knee. Across from them, Cecil rested her chin on her arms, watching them with that infuriating softness that made Bubbles want to either melt or sprint a mile.

They chose to keep writing.

It was easier to focus on the lyrics than on the girl across the desk whose nose crinkled every time she laughed.

"you walk into the room like you don’t burn things down,

but your heart's all wildfire, and i would gladly burn."

Bubbles stopped, blinked. That was too much. They scratched it out.

Cecil leaned over a little. “Is it about someone?” she asked, voice casual but hopeful in the way only Cecil could manage. Like hope with its shoelaces untied, stumbling toward disaster.

Bubbles didn’t answer. Just tapped the page once and looked at her with their head tilted, the way they always did when they weren’t sure how to say something.

Cecil sat up a little straighter. “You can show me, if you want.”

And just like that, the panic began.

Because Bubbles had been writing this song about her, and now she was right there, leaning close, eyes bright and trusting. And for a second—just a second—they thought she might kiss them.

Their heart stopped. Fully stopped.

They looked at her lips. Then her eyes. Then their pencil. Then the door. Then back at her lips.

Cecil leaned a fraction closer. Bubbles inhaled sharply. She froze.

“No, no, sorry!” she whispered suddenly, waving her hands frantically. “I wasn’t—! I mean, I was, maybe, I don’t know what I was doing, I just—your handwriting is really pretty and I forgot how close we were and—oh no.”

Her glasses slipped down her nose in the chaos. Bubbles, still frozen, reached instinctively to help—and that was when it happened.

Their hair snagged on the tiny silver chain that held her glasses.

A pause. A breath. Cecil blinked. “Are we… stuck?”

Bubbles nodded miserably.

And then, slowly, Cecil started to laugh.

Not a mean laugh. Just soft and chaotic, the kind of laugh that ended with her head falling gently onto their shoulder. “You know,” she mumbled, “this feels like a metaphor for something.”

Bubbles, cheeks flushed red, mouthed: I like you too much for this.

Cecil didn’t see the words—but she didn’t need to. She felt it in the way Bubbles’ hands shook as they gently worked her hair free, the way they lingered just a second longer than needed near her face, like she was something sacred.

And then, when her hair was finally loose and their faces weren’t centimeters apart anymore, Bubbles handed her the notebook. No words. Just the pages, and their hope stitched into every chorus.

Cecil read quietly, biting her lip.

She looked up.

And leaned in again.

This time, Bubbles didn’t panic.

(Though their hands did shake when she held them.)