Hannah

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
grade 10 writing portfolio - prompt was to tell a story using mostly dialog.

Submitted: December 12, 2015

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Submitted: December 12, 2015

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Hannah

 

“Oh my God. You’re in love with her,” I say as I look at him.

“No, I’m not. I just think she’s pretty and funny and cute and perfect and respectful and smart and everything you could possibly want in a girl,” he sighs. “But I don’t like her or anything. I mean I would totally go on dates with her and stuff, but I don’t like her or anything. I’m definitely not in love with her.”

“If you say so…” I say, rolling my eyes. “Even after everything she’s done to you, you still feel this way?” I ask. “You know she led you on all year.”

“Yeah, which is why I don’t like her. Duh.” He shrugs. “Plus it’s not like what she did was that bad or anything. She just kept cancelling dates over and over.”

“Come on, Mason. You know it was a dick thing to do,” I say.

“You have to give her a chance, Tyler. You haven’t even met her,” he says defensively.

“Actually, I don’t have to give her anything. She hurt my best friend.”

“No, she didn’t. She disappointed me. That’s not the same as hurting me. I can’t get hurt over something that was never there.”

“You’re allowed to be mad at her. She played you along.”

“I don’t want to be mad at her. She’s too sweet to be mad at,” he looks up at the sky and sighs again. I get him out of his daze with a slap.

“See? You’re in love with her. You get shaky when you’re around her and you get all romantic when you talk about her. You need to get over her. It’s not going to happen.”

“I’m not in love with her.”

“You are. You are completely head over heels in love with her.”

“I’m not in love with her.”

“Why are you denying it? Can’t you see the way you smile when you think of her?”

“Because I’m not in love with her. I’m allowed to think she’s pretty, Tyler.”

“Yeah, you’re allowed to think people are good-looking, but being in love with someone who broke your heart over and over again?”

“She didn’t break my heart, okay? You weren’t even here last year. You don’t even know what really happened.”

“Then tell me,” I say plainly.

“Fine.”

“Okay. Go.”

“It started last year. She went to the other school. She took my bus after school. I got to know her and I started to like her. So I asked her out before the summer and she said yes. We planned a date for the next Friday and everything was all great. Then next Thursday came around and she texted me and said she was busy.”

“She cancelled?”

“Yeah, she cancelled on me. It wasn’t a big deal though. We rescheduled again and she said she was free but cancelled last minute. She did this four times before I started to get frustrated. I decided I’d give her a chance though. Being transgender and all makes it hard to find someone that wants to date me.”

“Keep going,” I nod.

“Then comes New Years. Which we spent together, remember? I was having trouble hitting on her over Facebook messenger, so you helped out. I managed to arrange another date with your help before school started up again.”

“And she cancelled?”

“Bingo,” he replied. “At this point, I was done. I didn’t even want to see her or talk to her. She stopped sitting with me on the bus. But I would still see her every day when she got on and put her bus pass onto the scanner and smile at the bus driver and say, ‘have a good day.’ It killed me inside that I gave up on her. I gave up on the chance to hold her, the chance to be with her.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, eventually she stopped taking the bus every day. But when she did she wouldn’t smile at the driver or talk. She’d look sad. She looked helpless. She’d have bruises and scars on her face. She’d sit down in the front corner and face forward, so nobody would look at her. I reached out to her. I couldn’t take it anymore. I talked to her again. She told me she was having problems at home. I could relate. But now that she wasn’t bright and happy anymore, I knew it wasn’t time for us again. She needed to learn to love herself before I could step in and love her. I had to be her friend. So that’s what I did.”

“Sounds like she broke your heart to me,” I say.

“She didn’t. In the end, I broke my own heart.”

“I’m sorry. Sounds rough.”

“Yeah. But I wrote her a poem to give to her when it’s finally the right time.”

“About?”

“Wanting her to smile again.”


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