posters of green day
were all over the walls of your bedroom.
you liked punk rock;
you were never a fan of country.
you're such a huge piece of mystery,
jace evans.
i saw a notebook lying open on your table
and i couldn't resist the urge to take a look.
they were songs,
page after page of them
with the lyrics scribbled hastily
and the chords underneath them.
"and you asked me to fill in the lyrics,"
i said accusingly,
"you would clearly do it better."
"well, here's the story.
you inspired the melody, leah."
"i did?"
well, i'm proud to say that that came out as a cowardly whisper.
"you did," you confirmed,
"and i happen to be no good at composing the lyrics to cheesy country songs, so there."
i was torn between laughter
and/or
crying out tears of joy.
i never said i wasn't a freak.
YOU ARE READING
the 100 things you said to me
Short Story" in which unfriendly conversations were made through the gaps between their bedroom windows until what initially were cold stares and shrugs turned into so much m o r e ."
