I can't believe he saw me.

He actually saw me.

Worst of all, his first impression of me was the strange watcher staring intently into the boy next door's new window. I wish I hadn't let temptation get the best of me. I should've never peeled back the curtains. Except he was so cute with that wavy blond hair tucked under a snug black beanie and those mesmerizing green eyes under those adorable black glasses.

He looked happy, content. His white sparkling teeth formed a cheerful smile made me want to go up and knock on his door and kiss his spectacular lips. They were slim and curled in the most perfect way, with a soft pink tint that reminded me of the sunset on a cool night when the sky looks like it's been glazed over by a chilly ice cube. The yellow fades away, the orange melts into blue, and the red lightens to bubblegum pink. That pink is the shade of his lips.

The shade of a cotton candy sky.

As if I'd ever have the confidence to strut up to his door and kiss him, let alone say hello. I'm way too much of a coward to even wave when a guy sees me checking him out from across the street. How could I ever be strong enough to look into his dazzling emerald eyes and kiss his lips?

Something amazing did happen today. I realized that love isn't for me, and I'd hate to get my hopes up about something as fragile as love.

***

It's after dark when I hear a knock on my front door. Time eludes me, but it must be almost 8 PM. Even though it feels as chilly as a cool winter's night, the summer sun stubbornly lingering in the distance, preparing its descent into the horizon. I watch it from the window, nothing better to do but look at it.

My hand aches from writing poetry, the stains of black ink shown on my pinkie and ring finger. I didn't even know I was putting pen to paper until all the words were drowning me, echoing my sorrow.

I wrote about him, wrote all about his twinkling eyes and soft lips. I wrote until my fingers ached to the bone. I wrote until my hand shook and threatened to give way. My hand shakes like somebody with something to say, but my lips stay mute, threaded together by my own apprehension. Why am I afraid to utter the words I so easily put on page?

I want to be happy more than anything else in the world. Yet how am I ever going to rebuild my emotions and overcome the sadness that has been drowning me like the murky waters under the crimson creek bridge? Depression doesn't simply vanish with the snap of a finger. It lingers.

The knocking on the door persists, and I realize I've been sitting on the staircase the past few minutes, letting the knocks ring in my ears without reacting. I went to that place. I became trapped in limbo. Some people, like my father, numb their brains to get there. Others get sucked in without any warning, like me. I fear one of these days I won't be able to return.

Finally, I sit up from the staircase and peak through the peephole to see who's there. Of course, it's none other than him waiting for me on the front porch.

I crack open the door before I can even process all of the reasons I shouldn't, my brain turning to mush at his presence. He looks even cuter up close, if that's even possible. His lips curl at the sight of me, his green eyes sparkling in the approaching moonlight. The sun has begun its descent into the ocean horizon, creating a ribbon of electric reds, oranges, yellows, and magentas, framing the most beautiful background to the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

Standing there, I take him all in. His broad shoulders and muscular arms mean he works out – not religiously like some of the jocks at my school – but enough to look good in a tight tee and joggers. His beanie and glasses are gone and his hair is damp. He must've taken a shower.

Images of him taking a shower, with those broad shoulders and whatever's hiding under those joggers, suddenly consume my thoughts.

I try to shake my vivid imagination away, not wanting to show my excitement. As I erase the lovely images from my brainwaves, I notice he's holding a bouquet full of pink carnations.

Fucking pink carnations.

Is my mom sending me a sign? For a second, I almost believe it. Why else would he bring pink carnations?

"How did you know-"

He makes a hasty interruption, not even letting me finish my question.

"I saw them in your flower pots on the front porch, and I thought you needed some new ones that weren't so..."

"Droopy?" I ask with a sarcastic tone; one I didn't even know I still had the energy to use. I haven't flirted like this since before Mom died. My friends always called me a frequent flirt without a filter.

"Yeah, droopy," he chuckles with a twitching half-smirk that makes him look incredibly dumb but dreamily adorable at the same time.

Suddenly my body starts racing into a frenzied panic. My legs feel like Jell-O and my eyes are blurry, like the endless static on a television. These feeling festering inside me are unexpected. It's a raging excitement that I haven't felt in a very long time.

Before I know it, I start sobbing right in front of him. I'm not aware of how much of a mess I am until he anxiously drops the carnations and swoops down to pick me up. All these years, I could've felt this way. I could've experienced crushes, joy, love. Feeling this way now is almost worse than feeling sad because it reminds me of all the experiences I've missed and all the ways my life could've been different.

And I can't take it.

I try to tell him to go away, but the words refuse to come out. Instead, I wail uncontrollably, tears pouring from my eyes and trails of saliva escaping my mouth. With his strong arms, he carries me into the house and gently sets me down on the living room couch, tenderly combing a stray curl out of my face before leaving the room to find a box of tissues. He returns moments later and sits down on the opposite end of the couch, outstretching a handful of tissues. I grab the bundle and blow my nose, averting his gaze, my body freezing up with embarrassment. His first impression of me is this walking slug of melancholy sludge that weeps at the sight of a stranger.

After sitting up and catching my breath, I blow my nose one final time and glance over at him, wiping the tears away from my wet brown eyes. He smiles, giving me this calming look that I can't imagine putting into words. It strikes me in my abdomen, leaving me breathless and flushing my cheeks bright red.

Miraculously I manage to calm down and introduce myself. He responds, introducing himself as Grayson Pierce.

Grayson. What a beautiful name.

This is all I can think about for minutes, my mouth gaping at him like a fucking fish, until he breaks the silence with a question.

"What made you cry?"

I guess I can't be mad at him for asking. After all, he did carry me to the couch. Still, opening up to him about this nauseates me. It would be easier if he left and never returned. Yet he would refuse to leave if I asked. I can already tell that his heart is a little bigger than his brain. He'd probably lie awake worrying about me if he left now.

I don't think anybody has ever spent their evening lying awake thinking about me.

I hesitate to speak, calculating how to explain this to him without bringing down his mood.

"Three years ago, my mom, whose favorite flowers are pink carnations, died."

"Shit! I'm such an idiot!" He screams, rambling until I finally stop him by sliding my arm around his shoulder, instantly regretting it, yanking it away moments after placing it there.

"No, it's not like that! It's just, I haven't really had a whole lot of friends since she passed. Actually, I don't have any friends. So, when I saw you out there, looking cute with your handful of pink carnations and that adorable smile, I sort of lost if from how happy it made me."

"You think I'm cute?"

I gulp, terrified that I've destroyed any chance of establishing a friendship with this guy.

"I mean, in a puppy dog kind of way," I say, trying to recover whatever ounce of normalcy I can. This guy is probably straight and no doubt turned off by me.

"Right...," he drawls awkwardly.

Before I stick my foot any farther into my mouth, Grayson proposes an idea.

"Hey, maybe when you're ready, I can come over and help you plant the carnations. I'm free tomorrow, if you don't have any other plans."

Grayson itches his head and grins anxiously, baring his white teeth in an awkwardly unflattering way. Is he trying to ask me on a date? Or maybe he merely wants to hang out?

Ugh, I always overthink things.

"Sure," I say with a shrill voice crack, glad he either didn't notice or has the maturity to not laugh hysterically. I wave goodbye and give him a tentative smile as he walks out the door, making his way back to his cozy little home across the street.

With one final sniffle, I pick up the beautiful pink carnations from the ground and set them on the front porch, making sure my father won't step on them later when he gets back from work.

As I step back into the house, I can't help but think - today was a good day.