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Dec 2017
Saturday night football game,
surrounded by a crowd of cheering fans,
classmates I'm supposed to call my friends,
but honestly, I'd much rather be home in my PJs,
watching corny movies with my grandma.

"Where are you going?" they ask.
Like they even care.
They don't.

I decide to leave,
but just as I'm walking out,
there you are.

The boy with the brown eyes and the brown hair,
but everything else about him bright and shining like the sun,
with every color that blossoms from the innermost workings
of my aching heart,
The boy that makes weeks feel like days
and hours feel like seconds,
The boy I never thought I'd stand a chance with,
until now.

What do I do?
Do I pretend your eyes didn't just catch mine?
Do I leave, regardless of the fact
that this could be the very opportunity
I've been waiting for?
Do I stay,
unsure if I'd even get up the nerve
to talk to you?

But before I can think about this any longer,
before I can talk myself out of saying the two letters
I should've never said,
"Hi" slips out from underneath my tongue
and wraps itself around my neck
like a rope that, if pulled only the slightest bit tighter,
would've had the potential to strangle every thought in my mind
to silence.

But to my surprise, you smile.
Oh, how precious that smile was.
I haven't seen it in a while,
you know.

So we talk and we laugh,
and you ask me if I'd like to sit,
go somewhere we can be alone.

I lead.
You sit down next to me,
your leg brushing up against mine.

A rusty old picnic table
becomes a spot I'd never forget,
a soon-to-be landmark behind all the bleachers and fake friends,
all the screaming, all the cheering, of people who'll never know
what it's like to feel the way I did that night.

A little boy runs out in front of us,
playing with a small car his mom must've let him bring,
his curly blonde hair bouncing up and down with every step.

You tell me about that time you fell off your bike,
went tumbling down and got right back up
to ride all the way back home.
How your dad called and you answered,
forgetting to mention the severity of what had just happened.
The way your brother looked at you when you stumbled through the front door,
all bruised and beaten up like you'd just been in a bad fight.
The way you walked upstairs,
how you just laughed.

I tell you about anything I can think of,
anything that you didn't already know.
To be honest, I don't even remember what I said.
I was so nervous I didn't even know words
were coming out of my mouth
until you laughed that laugh,
the same one as when you fell off your bike.

Soon, silence falls upon us,
but not the kind that thickens the air
and makes it hard to breathe.
No, the "this is so amazing I'm at a loss for words"
kind of silence.
The same silence everyone needs to experience in their lives.

And suddenly,
in the midst of our perfect quiet,
you do something you'd never be able to take back,
something that meant a lot more to me
than it ever would to you:
you put your arm around me.

I remember feeling so special.
I remember finally accepting the fact
that you could feel the same about me
as I always had for you.

I remember feeling like nothing in the world could hurt me,
nothing could bring me down,
not as long as your arm stayed right there,
around mine.

But nothing stays perfect forever.
Quiet moments fade,
the clock runs out,
players shake hands,
crowds go home.

And before you know it,
Saturday nights fade into Sunday mornings.
And Sunday mornings feel like let-downs
after Saturday nights like those.
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