Elaine
What have I done?
Sighing aloud I resume pacing, the average area that covers my room, that was proving to be too small for my big contemplation.
Why did I confess?
Picking up a pillow from the bed, hugging it to my chest I compress it, an aid against the flutters of my heart.
As soon as I woke up from a well rested nap, I had been coiling my thoughts into a mess. Our conversation replying back and forth like the death and resurrection in Game of Thrones.
According to the era's of practical observations on romanticizing literatures and human psychology. There has been a short list, a list to define various kinds of love.
I may not ace in the field of relationship. But the little knowledge of Greek mythology, the language of every average minds headache's dots down seven of its kind.
Eros- love of the body
Philia- love of the mine
Ludus- playful love
Pragma-long standing love
Agape- love of the soul
Philautia- love of the self
Storge- love of the child
So much of distinguished analysis.
And then there was us.
Chameleons.
We might as well coin the new contribution to the oxfords thesaurus with the golden term, chameleonistic love. The ever changing colours of an emotions.
A love which causes you to have alternate passions.
The kind in which, In a minute you jump from hating a person to literally jump for a hug with the same person, either while confessing your undying love.
Bullshit Elaine! You never hated him.
Sighing sadly I try to stomp my feet. But immediately I shrill a stream of curses.
The wrong leg.
See, that's what you deserve when you deny your feelings.
And the sincere love of a curtained dyed haired boy.
"Why am I so nice" I scream, throwing my face first to the pillow as the bed rattles with my fall. My words muffled.
Wrong question Elaine. Why was he? Why was he being so nice to you?
Balancing my arms I lift my face up, my hair, angry and fizzed up as they framed half of my face.
Placing my chin on my palm I blow the hair out of my face. They hardly budge.
This is not fiction.
"Because he cares for me" I squint my eyes into slits, reasoning it to my conscience. An image of him carrying me here has my heart racing once again.
Stupid hormones.
He always cared for you. But there is just something about the way he keeps you under his known radar. It's not adding up.
Like I woke up to the stings of a cold shower, with alarmed senses I sit up straight, numerous doubts clotting and clashing together.
But every single of them were out ruined by a valid one.
YOU ARE READING
The Girl At The Last
Teen FictionShe carried secrets like one does cash in their wallet. Seventeen year old Elaine Winters has been through storm of destruction. So much that being bullied in summers High was equivalent to a hit by a comfy pillow to her. Alex White on the other han...
