"Daphne, please move your desk out of the aisle, back into your row."
"Okay." She didn't want to make a fuss. It's not her style to draw attention to herself. Yet, the boy she scooched her desk next to was just too cute for her not to be bold. To proclaim her crush on him.
"Thank you," her super nice teacher said. "I need to be able to walk up and down, between the rows of desks."
The boy, the cutest one in the entire school, rolled his eyes, glad the teacher noticed Daphne's ridiculous behavior.
She regretfully returned her lift the lid to store all her school-ready items in desk to her place. In her row. An arm length, or two, away from the boy she dreamed about.
Daphne was in the third grade.
The boy would find like notes she left him, in his desk. Greeting him first thing in the morning.
"I don't like you," he yelled, running passed her on his way out to the playground.
She didn't care. She liked him.
***
Years later.
Freshman year of high school.
The boldness was gone. Replaced by her true shy self.
"Hi Daphne. Would you like to go to the Homecoming Dance with me?" the boy, now a teen, asked her. They were surrounded by students milling around, taking their time getting to their next class.
"I can't. I am already going with someone else."
The little girl head-over-heels in like memory of crushing on him filled her crystalline mind.
Daphne had given up on him. Long ago. Probably in fourth, maybe fifth, grade.
She thought it ironic, funny, and endearing that he even thought of her.
Even more ironic, he wasn't even her type. Whatever her type was. She just knew he wasn't it.
He walked away. Shoulders slumped. Head down.
"Okay." She didn't want to make a fuss. It's not her style to draw attention to herself. Yet, the boy she scooched her desk next to was just too cute for her not to be bold. To proclaim her crush on him.
"Thank you," her super nice teacher said. "I need to be able to walk up and down, between the rows of desks."
The boy, the cutest one in the entire school, rolled his eyes, glad the teacher noticed Daphne's ridiculous behavior.
She regretfully returned her lift the lid to store all her school-ready items in desk to her place. In her row. An arm length, or two, away from the boy she dreamed about.
Daphne was in the third grade.
The boy would find like notes she left him, in his desk. Greeting him first thing in the morning.
"I don't like you," he yelled, running passed her on his way out to the playground.
She didn't care. She liked him.
***
Years later.
Freshman year of high school.
The boldness was gone. Replaced by her true shy self.
"Hi Daphne. Would you like to go to the Homecoming Dance with me?" the boy, now a teen, asked her. They were surrounded by students milling around, taking their time getting to their next class.
"I can't. I am already going with someone else."
The little girl head-over-heels in like memory of crushing on him filled her crystalline mind.
Daphne had given up on him. Long ago. Probably in fourth, maybe fifth, grade.
She thought it ironic, funny, and endearing that he even thought of her.
Even more ironic, he wasn't even her type. Whatever her type was. She just knew he wasn't it.
He walked away. Shoulders slumped. Head down.
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