Her mind is a wonderland.
Each thought is a new world, a new song, a new dream.
She would be bursting brighter than comets,
If only she could.

The thing about creativity is that it tends to be wasted.
Everyday, the girl sits down at her ill lit desk and glues.
She cuts tiny pieces of magazine and glues them together to create a mosaic masterpiece.
The art becomes her words, her essence, her soul.
Just sitting, she glues grey to black gradients, and lets her silky blonde hair collect dust.

The only other thing she lets herself do is adore.
She doesn't trust, she doesn't communicate, she doesn't interact,
She adores.
And she’s only adores just one boy.

"Just friends."
"Just friends," she mutters to the tiny squares of paper when she thinks of him.
She knows that he could never think of her as anything more than friends.
They talk often, but never see each other outside of school.
He would never want to see her outside of school.

One day, while sorting through the tiny colors, her phone buzzes.
"Can I see you tonight?"

It's the first time those words have been thrown from him.
It's too shocking, it must be a dream.

But it's not.
So, she pulls the light grey dress out of her closet and brushes the dust out of her hair.
She shoves her art into an empty desk drawer.
Who cares about some stupid squares?
And they meet at eight.

During the movie, they joke and laugh.
She re-positions her hand several times, trying to send him a hint.
Her hand is as delicate as the paper she molds,
But he wouldn't break it.

He never touches her hand.
He crunches his popcorn and smiles over to her every once in awhile.
His smile is the only thing she could ever ask for.

At 12 pm, she returns home.
Her mother is perched by the door, filled with hopeful and excited questions.
"We're just friends. Really close friends," she recites with a faked smile then flits up the stairs.

The night sky shadows through the window panes of her dark room.
All the stars spill out of the heavens and she tries to catch them.
When they can't be reached, she decides to count them.
Twenty: One for each time she looked over to him.

He's just like the stars.
So bright,
And oh, so distant.

She hangs the dress back into the closet,
Puts on a ratty, old night gown,
Sits down at the desk,
And turns on the dim lamp.

Suddenly, the night vanishes.
It's too unclear to have actually happened.
The night couldn't have happened,
It didn't happen.
It never would happen.

So, she opens her desk drawer and gingerly picks up a clear white canvas.
Every time she thinks “he” could have happened, she starts a new piece to clear her mind.

Nine hang on the walls.

She just continues gluing squares together,
Dreaming of the day when he'll decide to want her.
Just gluing grey to black gradients,
letting her hair collect the dust.