#buh. baby dylan. what if he always had an idea of what might happen

[subjectsix]

dylan faden and imagination for your prompt thing.... thank youuu, have a good day ^_^

"Are you okay, dear? What's wrong?" Mrs. Chester smiles at Dylan over her desk. Her short curly hair frames her soft face and bright eyes.

He doesn't smile back.

"I don't feel good," he mumbles, barely audible. "Can I go to the office?" She gives him a puzzled look and places the back of her hand to his forehead. He does his best to seem truly miserable.

"You were fine at the start of class. Did something change? You don't feel warm." She casts a glance over his shoulder before turning back to him, speaking quietly. "One of the other boys isn't bothering you again?"

"Mm-mm," he shakes his head no. "I just..."

His eyes dart to the piano and back.

"I don't feel good."

Her eyes peer over the top of her glasses, eyeing the small piano in the room.

"Not looking forward to music class?" she guesses. "It's okay to have stage fright."

"Yeah," he shoves his hands in his pockets, poking his pinky through a hole in the bottom. "I guess. I just..."

He can't explain this. Adults don't get it. They just tell you the monster under your bed isn't real, and to go back to bed. That if you drink some water, the nausea will go away. That you have nothing to be anxious about.

The dread in his stomach is worse than any flu. His whole body feels cold, even if Mrs. Chester says he feels fine. And he's not afraid of music class, because he's one of the only students who practices.

"I think something bad is going to happen," he says, rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm. "I don't know."

She folds her hands in her lap and swivels her old wooden chair to the side, beckoning him beside her. He shuffles over, shoelaces catching underfoot.

"Something bad?" she asks him quietly. "Why do you think that?"

He shrugs, rubbing his eyes more, trying not to think about it or make eye contact. Adults don't understand.

But Mrs Chester is so nice.

"What bad thing do you think might happen, Dylan?"

He shrugs again. It feels stupid to say it.

"I don't know. It's stupid." He can hear Tom Barlow laughing in the back of the class, and looks out over his sea of classmates. "You'll think it's stupid."

"I don't think so, Dylan. If it's worrying you, it can't be stupid, can it?"

He disagrees.

"I don't know." His hands abandon his eyes, moving instead to pull his sleeves over his fingers. "I just..."

She leans forward to hear him, waiting patiently, straining to hear his quiet murmurs.

"I feel like something bad will happen. With the piano. Really, really bad."

"With the piano?"

He'd throw up, if he didn't feel the eyes of everyone in the class watching him, wondering what's taking him so long and what he's saying. He screws his eyes shut, trying to ignore the intrusive flashes in his mind.

"I feel like it's going to fall on you. I can see it." He can't cry in class either. Tom would kill him for it. "I don't know. Can I please go to the office?"

Mrs Chester smiles again, wrinkles creasing. She gives him a few pats on the arm.

"I'll be fine dear, I promise. You've got an active imagination from all the reading you do, that's all. Why don't you walk to the water fountain outside and get a drink?"

Adults don't get it. He just feels stupid. So he nods.

She passes him the hall pass with another reassuring shake of the shoulder.

"But don't take too long! You don't want to miss the times tables test."

He folds and unfolds the pass in his hands, ducking his head as he walks out the door into the hall.

one word prompts