I stepped off the bus, and quickly peered down the stretch of road to my school. No sign of him. I always felt guilty doing this, but for heavens sakes, I couldn’t spend every waking moment with him. And especially not today – I had something huge to tell my friends that he could not witness. I quickly darted down the street, keeping one eye open for him.

When I arrived at the general meeting spot between my friends and I, I had every intention of telling them the story. The story that began 2 months ago, on the very first day of school, in my very first period class. I’d kept it a secret, but was determined that they know. However, I found myself being bombarded by the two about everything from homework complaints to teacher complaints to, well, school complaints in general. I could hardly ignore an opportunity to talk about school and could even less so interrupt with my own story, so I willfully joined in. I could always talk to them after school on the bus.

Eventually, the bell rang, and we departed for class. As I walked towards my first period, my heart rate speed up and my pace quickened. I hated this, this nervous reaction that the prospect of seeing him brought on. I hated being in love with him who would never love me back. I hated even having to use the word love at the fresh young age of 14, but there was nothing else to describe it. I would deny it and deny it and deny it to myself until I could deny it no more, but I knew I was in love. I quickly stopped by the bathroom to freshen up a bit. I knew it would be no use in catching his eye, but I combed through my hair and reapplied some makeup anyways. I sometimes despised myself for going through with such superficial tendencies, but I could hardly deny that I enjoyed looking nice. It was the one teenage girl stereotype that I allowed myself to indulge in.

He was already in his seat when I arrived. I caught my breath when I saw him. Not because he was good-looking, for he was surely not. He didn’t have to be. He could have looked like Lord Voldemort, or unmasked Darth Vader and I would have still had to catch my breath. I can’t tell you why. I can list a whole slew of things that I love about him, but I could never tell you why I love him. Him, and not the other. For yes, there was another in my life, trying to win my affection. I spent my days trying to give it to him, but all I had to do was walk into one of the three classes I shared with the first before he stole my love clean away.

My life was a constant battle of affection between Cearul and Ciaran, with me fighting for the love of Cearul and Ciaran fighting for the love of me. I always found it best to simply push the two aside and let of love of school take precedence.

“Hey”, said a voice. I whipped around to find Cearul standing directly next to me. I could do naught but nod.

“Do you like Ciaran?” He asked me. This was the second time he’d asked me that in a week. My reply remained the same as always.

“Did he ask you to ask me that?”

“No”.

“Then I hardly find it to be your business”. I hated how I did this. In the few precious incidents where he talked to me, I became rude and abrasive. It was my natural defense mechanism against heartbreak, I was sure, but that didn’t make me like it any better. He made no reply, so I went to my seat, silently hating myself.

The teacher took her usual 20 minutes for whatever she was doing behind that computer, so I talked. This was my plan. The only plan I had. To talk to anyone and everyone. It was the only thing I could think of – to make myself seem in high demand, I suppose, or to prove I was a likeable person, or perhaps just in hopes of another conversation with him, even if it only matched the most recent. I talked and chattered with everyone around me, constantly stealing secret glances to see if he noticed. He didn’t. Not that I could see, anyways. As my heart broke deep down inside the layers of my mind, the surface layer continue to happily jabber away. This was how it was every single day. Every day I tried to catch his eye. Every day I failed. Every day I tried to insist to myself I didn’t watch to catch his eye anyways. Every day I then told myself I was being melodramatic, that love didn’t exist, and to shut up about stupid problems and do the math homework already because otherwise I’ll never get into college. And then after that I felt like crying, because I wanted love to exist so badly.


They wonder why people write so many books about love. The truth is, we have to. There is no other choice. When love takes hold, the only outlet is a sheet of paper. It helps to organize and map out our thoughts, and to deal with the pain and confusion as such as strong and illogical passion brings.

As I left my first period health class and walked towards language arts, I bit down hard on my lip. I wanted to cry so badly. There was no pain, not anymore. The pain had clotted out my mind and left a nothing. There was no numbness – rather, there was a vacuum in my mind, pulling on my brain from every direction. Deep down in my chest, where scientists claim you have a mechanical pumping device when in reality I know we have our deepest, darkest, most anguishing memories locked away, there was something. I’d buried it so deep down I couldn’t tell what it was, but I knew that it wanted. It wanted fulfillment, it wanted love. It would never stop, it would never be satisfied.

This was my life. This would always be my life. There was no escape. All I could do was pray things mended themselves, some way, somehow.