To the boy I hurt.
To the boy who hurt me.
To the boy I loved.
To the boy who never saw.
*Shout out to @SortaSixteen, the co-creator and thinker-upper*


The room is dead silent, and I cringe when I hear you whisper my name.

But I can’t ignore you.

So I turn to my left, and all I can notice is how brilliantly blue your eyes are, and the perfect slope of your nose-

“Is China in the Mediterranean Zone?”

The sibilants are loud, and some of our peers turn to look at us. I avert my eyes from yours, and whisper, more quietly than you:

“China is in the Chinese Zone.”

You nod, and go back to your test. Later on, you thank me profusely for letting you “compare answers.” I score one of two 100’s in all of 10th grade-

Guess who scores the other.

It seems suspicious, doesn’t it, how we sit next to each other and both get perfect scores. I can’t just let you fail, though. You have no idea what you’re doing. You spell China with a “Q”; you use the Coliseum as an example of Indian economic growth-

I don’t care that you don’t text me for any reason other than to ask for pictures of my homework. I don’t care that you only talk to me because you feel bad for cheating.

Ha, listen to me, the grade-obsessed girl-

I’d risk a zero for you. 

The End

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