"Nothing's real in 7th grade," I was reminded over and over again, but for once in my life, something was.
I had finally finished the poem's tenth draft, each version coming closer and closer to describing the insatiable emotions within me. At the age of 13, attempting to squeeze an infatuation with a girl I knew merely from a distance on a single piece of paper was more than a challenge. There was no reason in particular why I loved this particular girl, I simply knew that she was my soul mate. When I was to work up enough courage, I would pass the poem to her in our seventh grade homeroom, and that day was today.
Sitting perfectly still at my desk, I felt the grip on the poem tightening. I did the unthinkable, body trembling, lower lip shivering. Acting on nothing but impulse, I passed the poem. Moving like a gazelle, the note traveled from one hand to another, crossing the room, until it met its final destination. Her hand had grazed the note. She seemed hesitant to read what was inside, hesitant to know she was loved. Delicately pushing her hair back, she smoothly unfolded the note. From the distance, I could see her lips quiver as she read the poem to herself. Then the most fulfilling moment of my life occurred. The most beautiful white smile appeared accompanied with a tear that left a run of mascara in its tracks. Not the kind of polite smile or the smile of laughter, this was the smile only love could construct. I saw her immediately scramble across her desk to find something to write with, and she swiftly flipped the note over and replied to my poem. I memorized every move she...