"Nothing's real in 7th grade," I was reminded over and over again, but for once in my life, something was.
I had finally finished the poem's tenth draft, each version coming closer and closer to describing the insatiable emotions within me. At the age of 13, attempting to squeeze an infatuation with a girl I knew merely from a distance on a single piece of paper was more than a challenge. There was no reason in particular why I loved this particular girl, I simply knew that she was my soul mate. When I was to work up enough courage, I would pass the poem to her in our seventh grade homeroom, and that day was today.
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