The Story Boarders

This was for that "Stories in the Heart" Prompt a few weeks ago. Finally got around to typing it.




That box is still buried in my closet somewhere. I find it when I'm cleaning or rearranging things and I'll spend a few minutes pulling out all the little knick knacks and things I collected in a past life. And while it gathers dust today, the story at the bottom of that box is more valuable than almost any other earthly possession of mine. Because in that box there is a note in a handwriting only slightly neater than my own. This is the story of that note.

The exact moment we met is lost in time, but so is most of my early childhood. She had a soft round face and golden blond hair that changed styles every day. She was a fan of everything fantasy that matured into a love of anything Japanese. She had a look that could kill you and a smile that could break your heart. She lived on the left side of the street with the four annoying dogs and if you saw a black cat, it was hers.

In elementary school she always was in the back ground, and later, as we got placed in the same classes, we became really close friends. She picked up the clarinet when I found the trombone, and we were in an advanced placement class together. This was sixth grade, and we were twelve. I miss those days. Once, while we were walking down a hallway, poking and laughing and giggling, the school's gossip (though I was probably to thick to notice) asked us if we were going out. Love? I'd never thought about love before. I couldn't sleep that night. I couldn't sleep for months.

Weeks went by. I'd look at her. She'd giggle. She's look at me. I'd laugh. We kept at it. Looking back, it was probably pretty pathetic. I could only think of her. But summer was upon us, and sadly, both of us were moving. In opposite directions. Posters were being put up about the End of School dance. While it wasn't really a date dance, I wasn't in the mood to care. It's not like I was at all rational. I was only formulating ways in my already too big sixth grade brain to ask her out. For a few days before the dance I would see her and all too literally run. I wanted to write a note, but I couldn't get the words out. All of my friends thought I was radioactive, which, wasn't too far from the truth. In the most embarrassing moment of my entire life, I scratched illegible words on a notebook and threw it. And ran again.

She knew what I meant, and her reply- a short sentence and a big smiley face- is still in a box in my room.