She was the type of girl who dreamed. She was one of the lucky ones, a girl whose infectious laugh boys fell in love with, who, having discovered her sexuality at 16, had a stash of gifts to remember former paramours by (a Toblerone wrapper and an empty heart-shaped chocolate box, both still faintly smelling of chocolate, and a cheap, teal colored bracelet with tiny glittering flowers). Yet even as she breathed in the smell of the wrappers and fingered the chipping bracelet, her mind was filled with images of boys who had made her heart ache as she sat in darkness and boys with whom she had missed chances, dreaming of all the beautiful and heartbreaking would-have-been's and never-will-be's.
She had a picture in her head, as she lay in bed, night after night, singing along to silent love songs, wailing and melancholy, as she traced and cupped the curves of her body with her hands. In her mind, these hands brushing back the hair from her face and crooning beautiful words into her ear belonged to various heads of soft, curly hair, to soulful, dark eyes, to rough, warm fingers, to bow-shaped, candy-tasting lips. She dreamed of soul-searching, mind-blowing, fireworks-f*cking-everywhere connections.
But instead of going out into the world where she usually met boneheads and guys who sent her raunchy text messages from dusk til dawn, she spun a silk web of glittering hope in her room. In her haven, she lay belly-down on her bed, legs crossed, reading books about whirlwind passion and aching love. She ate it all up like breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and then sat back with a swollen belly of want so full and so towering she refused to confront it all at once.
With this steady pulse beating in the back of her mind always, this dreaming girl dreamed of someone who would understand the wild look in her eyes and the blackened soles of her bare feet, waiting to run. And then, maybe, all the wonder of the world would be opened up to her.