Teen Fiction: 'Not Just Dreams Anymore'

This is a regular column featuring original poetry and fiction by and for teens, provided by Figment, the online community writing site for young readers and writers.

By Anna Park

His hand reaches for my back and I worry he can hear my heart beating way too quickly, or my small intake of breath. I look into the deep brown of his chocolate eyes and see the worry written across his face. I almost laugh. I just can’t see the reason behind his worry. He’s perfect. But, my thoughts are halted as his lips meet mine in a tender kiss. His lips are soft against mine, and I kiss back. I feel his lips turn into a small smile just as...

I almost jump when I hear the sound. I switch windows where I’m logged into the social networking site.

“Hey Dawn, what’s up.” Is all the chat says. (Not, "I’ve always loved you since the first time we met in science almost three years ago." I dream.)

“Yo.” I respond. I don’t tell him about the stories. The one thing I ever keep from him. Wait, that’s a lie. I’ve never told him I love him, the way a girl loves a boy.

We have a quick convo about random things like we always do when he has to leave.

“Love you

“lov ya 2

I shut the laptop as I hear him enter my room. I was in the middle of my newest creation. The ones I keep in my "Just Dreams" folder, hidden among the others.

“Hey Dawn, what were you doing?” he asks, his brown eyes full of curiosity.

“Nothing important.” I say as I slyly redirect his attention away from my laptop. I can’t let him find out about my story. The one who’s window isn’t fully closed. The one about a girl writing stories. The one about me.

We talk for a while about everything. We talk about his love of anything watermelon flavored, his worry over grades, and even his laziness. We joke, we laugh, but beneath it all, I just want to take his lips and kiss him speechless. But I don’t because I know he doesn’t feel the same way. I know his kindness, and the way he would feel conflicted if I told him. So I don’t, even after a year, he’s never known.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say but I just really want to get away, to rearrange my emotions and keep them in check.

I come back to find my laptop open, and his mouth gaping. I’m screwed. I yank my laptop away from him. I hope he didn’t read enough. But I know he did, because of his reaction.

“What’s this about, Dawn,” he says, his eyes flickering between me and the laptop.

I could easily lie. I could tell him I had to write a love story in English, about real people. I could tell him anything, and he’d believe me. It might be because he’s naïve, or because he helplessly wants to believe it. But I don’t. In this moment of weakness, I’m selfish. I want him to worry over me, to kiss me, to have his arms around me and never let go.

In this five second silence all this has gone through my head. I know it’s a risk. I know it would hurt him. I know we would never be the same. I know I shouldn't hope. But even so I respond.

“I love you."

And I brace myself for his reaction, because this time, it’s not just a story.

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