A Striking Idea

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"But the story has only just begun

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"But the story has only just begun..."

KAT'S POV:

After the party was over, dad and I had decided to have a little fun with Casper and his uncles. Creepy be as it may, I had a more joyful experience among dead spirits and my father than I could have possibly experienced with the kids from my school. Even though I had given them a good show, it was over now, and the nit picking would continue within the next week or so.

I kept thinking about the dance that Casper and I had shared, it seemed like it was too good to be true. Almost as if it never happened at all... but I really hoped that wasn't true. With all my heart I would hope it was real, maybe after it wasn't so fresh, I would ask him about it, what it felt like for him and how he remembered it. He'd been alive again, surely he wouldn't forget every minute of it.

As selfish as it sounds, I hated the fact that he'd only had so much time with me. I experienced him with flesh and blood, and he was everything. He'd already become my friend, but there was something else there that could no longer grow since that night. Truth be told, it didn't matter the cost, I would do anything for him to be alive, and beside me. He did after all give up his only shot so that my dad could remain alive and well with me, and that meant so much more than he'd ever know. He was so selfless, and deserved to have his dreams come true. He was selfless, and I was selfish.

Over the next few days I wrote in my journal about the times I'd been having. I'd formed this habit a long while ago to remember the places that I lived, what each experience was like. This place was what I now considered home, yet I still wrote in my book to remember everyday I spent. That day was different, though, and always would be. It was a sad, happy, and over all confusing day. Today seemed to be the same, as though there should have been so much to converse about, all parties didn't seem interested enough in doing so.

After we all went our separate ways for the evening, I hadn't gotten a chance to talk with Casper alone. Usually he comes in by now, but I wasn't going to worry about it. Normally, he read over my shoulder, watching as I took careful time to make neat lines of words on my journal, and I never minded it. The past few nights I probably wouldn't be so generous as to let him stick around and read my entries... every line and every word was about him. How he'd looked so different from how I pictured him, and yet, a perfect representation of what I thought he would be. How he was so gentle and soft when we danced, as if he was trying to whisk me away from the uncomfortable life I lived. How he ever so sweetly kissed me, just barely, but making it a moment I could remember my whole life long. 

I wrote in depth and detail that first night about our dance, how he and I were just barely floating above the ground, and until I looked away from his eyes, I hadn't noticed at all. I wrote about how closely he'd held me, too. As mentioned before, it was gentle, but still so close and unrelenting. His arms felt so different than anyone else I've ever hugged... He felt so warm, and safe, like a blanket I'd clutch from my youth whenever I was fearful. I let my pen take control of the words in my head, frantically scribbling them onto the pages each time, and each time I had taken heed of going faster, that way there were no additional eyes reading.

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