Here is a fictional romantic piece. Hope you enjoy it!
The colored lights that surrounded us looked like radioactive butterflies. I knew I was the one of the two decent looking girls there, and I felt the eyes of the teenage boys pounce on me. A part of me was awakened at that party—a part of me that had been hidden underneath thick wool covers for years. Although I knew that it had to rub the night’s residue from its eyes and stretch, but it was no longer a prisoner of sleep.
I was frazzled, no—I was a bunch of soda sloppily spilled across the carpet floor, fizzing at all angles, a mess that wasn’t going to be cleansed during any moment relatively close to this one. I had just rushed from a speech tournament, but not just any competition. It was the one I was positive I was going to dominate, and didn’t even get a smudge of recognition at. Still adorning my suit and stockings I entered the room of boys that I knew, could have a conversation with, but not on the you’re my best friend and if I were to kiss you it would be waaaaaaaaaay awkward and it would just shatter everything boys. Yes, it was in a basement, but don’t you make any of those everyone knows want happens when a high school party’s venue is a basement assumptions, because we’re nerds. Actually what made that night special is that some of us were a tad cooler than nerds, and slightly attractive, actually massively attractive in that I’m a good guy but I don’t treat Harry Potter as the bible way. I talked to them all. Tuck, who was sassy about how he should rejoin the speech team sat next to me on the carpet. Max gave us all back massages, yes, back massages, and they were damn amazing. My friends beau, the sweetest guy on earth, I desperately wanted to kiss. Under that lighting, I swear you become someone that isn’t you. Rick continued to be quite odd, but that is charming in some really creepy manner. The music. The music controlled every movement within the room, every word dropped from each soft lip. The music was those fire side songs that you cuddle to, but I had no one to cuddle with. I wanted to mangle it, change the songs, the tones, because I was coming too aware of my femininity, of those voices and callings within my core, of the fact that I had been so alone, so untouched, that I felt intangible. Just as I up to switch the cool tones of Coldplay to some boy bashing independence igniting Avril Lavigne, he joined me.
It’s so funny the way this earth works—how it just happens that the boy with the amber eyes, the fittest core, and a purity and optimism that just omitted sunlight all around me was in that basement, he bombarded me and stopped, saying politely that he was next, charismatically reprimanded me when I cursed, and held me in his arms with his words. I told that Jason Mraz was a good musician, but he was old news, and I was right, it had been at least 3 years since his last (stunning) album had been dropped. It’s funny how I live in a world where he would reply that the new album is going to be more beautiful and so long—the kind of one that you can savor forever. And it’s funny how I can use this conversation as a metaphor for my past romances and the one I am now begging to arrive. It’s funny how the song he imprinted play upon was the song that I last shared with my last boyfriend. The song that I always believed would be engraved in my young loves, the song until that night I had flinched at the tune of. And how he sang it, with such lighthearted perfection, not the nasal discomfort and puberty that had formed all of its past renditions. How he looked as me as the words “I’m yours” danced off his tongue, I think I was serenated. I’m might have dreamt it, but I felt like his words were a bird that we rode on together in every city, every emotion, every up and down. I never realized that maybe the romances are romances from the beginning. They aren’t just an extended friendship. They make your stomach collide into itself, toss all insecurities off their shelves, and leave you in a glorious turbulent mess. They make you passionate and make you want to claw things apart with supple hands. I tried to fight this emotional compression, a crush conceiving within me. I was listening to young love, and damn I loved every second of it. Even though my mother dragged me from the party, I knew that the celebration was not over. I felt those magnificent colored lights spark, and the florescent movement within my body. I felt a beginning. I felt the ending of this piece, but the dawn of a sincere, juvenile mature love. At least, I hope so. If these feelings end here, you are definitely going to hear the return of the bitter empty narrator that wrote the beginning of this piece, but I’m definitely going to try not to meet up with her again.