caseybeewrites.


Snippets, scribbles and quick writes.
The written word, derived from this mind of mine.
A collection of my thoughts, my imagination. My stories.

My writing, in the raw.

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Categories: her · him · love · thoughts · fiction · untitled entries

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Euphoric.

The school year had just begun and my friend had signed us up for a performance during the Homecoming rally. We’d agreed to do a partnered choreographed dance, we were one man short, I needed a partner, and word had it that this one kid danced, and danced extremely well.

He was 5’6”, Filipino and friendly. Standard description of an acquaintance, I know. But that’s how I knew him before I really knew him. I didn’t really know much else about him, much less his name until we were sort of thrown together at dance practice. Rewind back to when we first met. He was wearing a black v-neck, basketball shorts, long black socks and a charcoal grey pair of Vans. Simple.

Did I mention how much I liked v-necks and simple?

"Hey," he nodded at me, water bottle in hand. His voice was deep yet soft; it held a certain ring to it that almost gave me goosebumps. "I guess you’re my new dance partner."

Either my time of month was approaching rapidly or I was just hitting female puberty all over again because, Jesus, my hormones were going crazy that night.

The first few weeks of practice were tiring but bearable. We didn’t talk much aside from what the last two counts or so were for the choreo or if we knew when the next practice was. We’d shared a few plates of chili-cheese fries after a few performances but not much else. We were borderline acquaintances slash friends. Knew each other well enough to greet each other with a hug, but not well enough to really kick it outside of dance practice.

One night after practice, I suggested that, maybe he come over and we could order a pizza? He agreed. We headed over to my house and kicked it, watched a few movies, cracked a few jokes. I’d enjoyed his company thoroughly.

It wasn’t long before we started hanging out on the regular. It wasn’t long before I found myself searching for excuses to get closer to him, either. Poking his side to tickle him as a “friendly” gesture, scooting a little closer to him on the couch because the pizza box was taking up too much space, reaching over his lap to grab the remote.

I remember this one weekend so clearly. It was close to midnight and I invited him over to my house after we attended a mutual friend’s party. We chilled downstairs until my house grew quiet. Parents went to sleep, brother went out with his friends. We migrated upstairs into my room, but the house was quiet enough that we didn’t bother with the TV. We just kind of sat there and cracked jokes at each other. As time went on, we grew tired and we were suddenly laying down next to one another on my bed. He was wearing a nice button up and the most wonderfully scented cologne that I was eating up all night. I craned my neck the slightest bit so I could get a better whiff. I felt silly but it was so worth it. I poked his side playfully again. “You’re falling asleep.”

He raised his eyebrow at me. “Oh yeah? Not as tired as you are.” He responded with a poke to my side.

When he smiled and reached over to jab my ticklish side, a single, deep little crater formed near the corner of his mouth. His dimple. The cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my seventeen years of life. My heart stopped and suddenly I felt the urge to kiss him. He sat up, bringing me back to earth and told me that it was almost one in the morning, that he should probably head home and that we could hang out tomorrow. I was thoroughly disappointed—he was so damn close… but at the same time, I wasn’t sure if I was ballsy enough to have done anything.

The next evening, I’d spent two hours getting ready. I didn’t know why; we’d hung out hundreds of occasions beforehand AND we danced together. He knew what I looked like without makeup, hair tied and in basketball shorts for dance practice… I’m sure he wouldn’t care what I looked like, but I spent the extra time, anyways. He came over to my house and we found ourselves chillin’ in my room again. “You look really pretty tonight,” he commented, before asking me if I could get him a glass of water. “Not my house, I don’t want to be rude.”

"Lazy," I playfully accused before heading downstairs to fetch him a glass. I didn’t respond to his compliment appropriately, as his request for a glass of water effectively threw me off. As I reached the top of the stairs to get back to my room with a full glass of water, I suddenly saw a flurry of pink and red encased in clear, shiny film within the frame of my bedroom doorway. A bouquet?

"I know it’s only been a few weeks since we’ve really gotten to know each other… but will you be my girlfriend?"

I placed the glass of water on the night stand before running into his arms and being held in the longest, warmest hug of my entire life.

Kissing him for the first time was by far the best memory, though. The warmth of his lips seemed to ignite the fireworks in my heart; it would not stop pounding for the entire duration of the kiss and I was feeling so lightheaded I was practically flying. His kiss was so hot that it urged every fiber of my being to cling to him and hold him close for as long as I possibly could. The butterflies in my stomach fluttered even more crazily when he did something romantic, like cupping his hand to the hollow of my waist or holding the back of my head as we kissed. I wanted him so badly. I craved his lips every time we were in a room together and when we were alone, the electricity between us sent shivers up and down my spine and imploded a flock of doves throughout my insides.

Every kiss took my breath away. Every touch left a trail of fire on my skin, and every night we spent together left my cheeks flushed with both desire and satisfaction. He was my everything.

My first love.

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