I Don't Have a Crush on a Guy Who Cried at a Teenage Love Story.

“Movie in screen two is finished, Gerard,” I heard a co-worker say to me. She dropped the keys in front of me, indicating that I had to lock up for the night, after cleaning screen two. I stifled a groan. The Fault in Our Stars was showing in there. God knows how many snotty tissues I’d have to clear away. I left my place at the snacks bar, and wandered over to the entrance.

Hordes of sobbing and whimpering teenage girls poured out of the doors. I restrained myself from performing the biggest eye-roll of the century. Like, seriously, my eyes would drop out of my head. Instead, I ran my hand through my wild and tangled black hair and heaved a sigh. Finally, when it looked like the cinema had emptied, I entered with a broom in my hand. I began at the bottom, sweeping away clusters of dropped popcorn and ratty tissues. I mean, really? The film isn’t even that sad. It’s so predictable – you know one of them is going to die, so why be so shocked when it happens?

Mindlessly, I continued to clean up after a crowd of mainly 15-year-old girls that I didn't even know. One of the many joys of being Gerard Way. I paused for a moment, and I could have sworn I heard something. Oh hell no, if that was some form of rodent, I was out of there. But no, it sounded like… sniffing? I squinted into the dark theatre. Jeez, I thought, If this is a rogue girl that stayed in here, I will fuck shit up. Escorting crying girls out of the cinema is not in my job description.

“Uh, excuse me? The movie finished like, ten minutes ago,” I called out to the possibly empty darkness. The sound continued. This time, there was nothing I could do to prevent a groan from escaping my chewed-up lips. I climbed the steps to the back row, where the noise seemed to be coming from.

“You’re going to have to leave-” I began, but as I squinted closer, I saw something. “You’re not a 15-year-old girl.”

“Well spotted, Sherlock,” came the nasally reply. It came from a boy, who looked around my age, although I couldn’t see his features so well in the dim lighting.

“Uh, you still have to leave,” I repeated.

“I’m just waiting until I’m sure everyone’s gone before I leave, alright? People don’t need to see me crying over The Fault in Our Stars,” he muttered, and dabbed at his eyes with a tissue.

“Okay, dude. I guess you can stay for a little longer.” I moved towards the front of the cinema again and returned to cleaning.

After another 15 minutes, I had cleaned the whole place – cleaning the spot around the crying guy was difficult and awkward, which is an understatement – and his crying had somewhat stopped, although occasional sniffs could still be heard.

“Come on, I’m locking up,” I called to him. I saw his shadowy form advance towards the front of the cinema. Huh. He was shorter than he looked when he was sitting down. I had to have about three inches on him. I held open the door for him, and he nodded a thanks and stepped into the light.

I looked up at him. Woah, I thought. Other than the red-rimmed eyes and eyeliner trailing down his face, he wasn’t bad-looking. He pressed his hands into his eyes, and his shirt lifted up when his arms raised. I saw a trail of tattoos resting on his lower abdomen, but they were soon hidden when he lowered his arms again. I averted my eyes immediately, and felt heat rise into my face. Are you blushing, Gerard??? I chastised myself. What the hell?

“Anyways, thanks for that,” he said sincerely, and I saw him turn to leave. I stepped forwards. “It’s no problem.” He began to walk away, and I walked with him.

“Gerard,” I introduced myself, and held out my hand for him to shake. “Frank,” he replied, and took my hand, before dropping it.

Before I knew what I was doing, I had blurted, “Do you wanna go for a coffee some time?” Right after, I began to scold myself in my head. He’s going to say no, he probably doesn’t even like guys, you’re just a weirdo who asked him to leave the cinema…

“I’d love to,” he said with a smile, which I returned, hoping I didn’t look too eager. “Do you have a pen? To write down my number?” I patted my pockets, and shook my head as a no.

“That’s okay, tell me yours and I’ll remember it.” I recited my number to him, and I worried that he’d forget my number, that he was going to give me a fake number anyways. I forced myself to stop worrying, and said goodbye to him before doing a final check of the cinema.

The whole time, my heart was racing and I replayed our brief conversation in my head. What has gotten into me? No guy has ever had this effect on me before. I’m going sappy, oh god. I don’t have a crush on a guy who cried at a teenage love story. We only just met, I have no feelings for this guy. However, as much as I told myself these things, I couldn’t deny how excited I was to meet up with Frank.

Notes