I love thunderstorms.
I love the rain, the wind, the cold, and the lightning.
But I hate the thunder.
Boisterous. (It goes through the air like a thousand trash cans being hit.)
Heavy. (It hangs around, and as the sky gets darker it gets louder.)
Arrogant. (It interrupts conversations and plans and gets in the way and assumes it's welcome and perfect.)

Junior year was a thunderstorm.
I had rain (like the times I actually got invited to things) and wind (like the times I swore I felt her holding me) and cold (hide-and-go-seek in the school) and lightning (spinning flag in the hallway).

But I also had thunder.
Thunder. (You pulling me with you.)
Thunder. (You giving me encouragement.)
Thunder. (You asking her to prom.)
Thunder. (You avoiding me.)

Because no storm is complete without thunder.