Bathe in Color

12. Paris Wills, Age 16, August 3, 2019

I can't believe he saw me.

He actually saw me.

Worst of all, his first impression of me was the strange watcher staring intently into the boy next door's new window. I wish I hadn't let temptation get the best of me. I should've never peeled back the curtains. Except he was so cute with that wavy blond hair tucked under a snug black beanie and those mesmerizing green eyes under those adorable black glasses.

He looked happy, content. His white sparkling teeth formed a cheerful smile made me want to go up and knock on his door and kiss his spectacular lips. They were slim and curled in the most perfect way, with a soft pink tint that reminded me of the sunset on a cool night when the sky looks like it's been glazed over by a chilly ice cube. The yellow fades away, the orange melts into blue, and the red lightens to bubblegum pink. That pink is the shade of his lips.

The shade of a cotton candy sky.

As if I'd ever have the confidence to strut up to his door and kiss him, let alone say hello. I'm way too much of a coward to even wave when a guy sees me checking him out from across the street. How could I ever be strong enough to look into his dazzling emerald eyes and kiss his lips?

Something amazing did happen today. I realized that love isn't for me, and I'd hate to get my hopes up about something as fragile as love.

***

It's after dark when I hear a knock on my front door. Time eludes me, but it must be almost 8 PM. Even though it feels as chilly as a cool winter's night, the summer sun stubbornly lingering in the distance, preparing its descent into the horizon. I watch it from the window, nothing better to do but look at it.

My hand aches from writing poetry, the stains of black ink shown on my pinkie and ring finger. I didn't even know I was putting pen to paper until all the words were drowning me, echoing my sorrow.

I wrote about him, wrote all about his twinkling eyes and soft lips. I wrote until my fingers ached to the bone. I wrote until my hand shook and threatened to give way. My hand shakes like somebody with something to say, but my lips stay mute, threaded together by my own apprehension. Why am I afraid to utter the words I so easily put on page?

I want to be happy more than anything else in the world. Yet how am I ever going to rebuild my emotions and overcome the sadness that has been drowning me like the murky waters under the crimson creek bridge? Depression doesn't simply vanish with the snap of a finger. It lingers.

The knocking on the door persists, and I realize I've been sitting on the staircase the past few minutes, letting the knocks ring in my ears without reacting. I went to that place. I became trapped in limbo. Some people, like my father, numb their brains to get there. Others get sucked in without any warning, like me. I fear one of these days I won't be able to return.

Finally, I sit up from the staircase and peak through the peephole to see who's there. Of course, it's none other than him waiting for me on the front porch.

I crack open the door before I can even process all of the reasons I shouldn't, my brain turning to mush at his presence. He looks even cuter up close, if that's even possible. His lips curl at the sight of me, his green eyes sparkling in the approaching moonlight. The sun has begun its descent into the ocean horizon, creating a ribbon of electric reds, oranges, yellows, and magentas, framing the most beautiful background to the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

Standing there, I take him all in. His broad shoulders and muscular arms mean he works out – not religiously like some of the jocks at my school – but enough to look good in a tight tee and joggers. His beanie and glasses are gone and his hair is damp. He must've taken a shower.