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one more chance to say those three small words

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I love everything about you.


As the man who is incapable of being a teacher stands at the front of the room, choking on his own words, I sit two rows back, and three desks across from you.


It’s a cloudy day outside; it’s almost as cold and unpredictable as yourself.


Sunlight streams through the clouds, and suddenly you’re illuminated. The rambling of the educator falls upon unhearing ears as I find my gaze catch on your angelic silhouette. Your hair isn’t just blond, it’s a halo; and when sun catches your cold brown eyes, they light up and suddenly they’re the colour of earth kissed by the rains of spring, they hold all of the world, of my world, together. Your skin is seraphic, glowing with the light of the sun, and you look so delicate but I know how strong you are.


I want to run my hands through your hair, and to leave my mark on your smooth, pale skin. I want you to look at me with those eyes the colour of the soft earth and tell me that you want to be mine. I want to hold your hand and be with you. I want to whisper everything I love about you into your ears, and to never want to leave your side. I want you to throw away the small talk, the polite gestures, the carefully calculated words. I want to see you, in your purest form. I want you to talk about your life, and how you think the world works, and I want you to be you.


The bell rings, you tilt your head, oblivious to my thoughts, and I fall in love all over again as you rise from your seat, closing your textbook as you do so.


The students file past, and the teacher leaves, shouting reminders above the din of teenagers. Suddenly, we’re alone in the classroom, and your soft voice asks me if I am feeling okay. Your voice isn’t usually so kind, no--the word I want is gentle . As you help me from my seat, I see a sparkle in your eyes.


I gather my things, and you offer to carry them.


We walk home, and rain holds back for the most part.


We reach our street, and I know this is where we part ways. We’ve done it a thousand times.


I stop for a moment, and so do you. Your mouth begins to shape a question, and I want nothing more than to silence it with my own lips.


The clouds choose that moment to let down their sorrows, and within seconds we’re both soaked to the bone, shivering, and suddenly regretting wearing that extra layer.


You give me a hasty “I’ll see you tomorrow” as you turn your back to me and hurry down the street. I reach out my hand, hoping to grab on. You’re already gone.


I stand there, frozen, in the rain, words left unsaid danced on the tip of my tongue.


Everything about you is perfect; even your flaws.


I close my eyes and let the rain wash over me, as I hope for another chance. Just one more chance.


One more chance to say those three small words.