There was a tricolor Stylus pen stabbed on that nest of curls holding it for dear life with what seemed to be two red rubber bands. Creative. It was impossible not to stare at it, it was the only thing he could see in front of him, because she was quite the petite bundle of energy he couldn’t handle to focus on, and that bouncing mess of a high bun sequestered by school office materials was the one thing at his eye level that was keeping him from starting to run as far as his legs allowed him at this very moment. Incoming panic attack? Shit.