I left English class, heaving a sigh of relief. Writing has always held a special place in my heart, but today was different. We were discussing love. She’d asked me what I thought love was, and then asked the class to discuss it. I’d told them love was what made eternity seem beautiful. I told them love was when you could be with a person and not even notice you’ve got a gun to your head. I told them love was when, if that person leaves, you can’t hold anything in your mind but pain and longing. They told me I was being deep, but I know I was being superficial. Love is something else altogether, something that touches on humanity but in reality goes so much farther than any human could comprehend.
I walked slowly across campus towards my friends, thinking hard about what love really is. As I did so, I saw him. A whole wave of mixed up assorted emotions and passion washed over my mind, befuddling it for a moment before it became overwhelmed and shorted out. A smile spread itself across my face – a sad, sad smile. And for a moment, I knew what love was. I could feel it. It spread throughout every part of my body, filling it with a warm glowing –
I mentally slapped myself in the face. “Chloe Elisabeth Craig”, I told myself. “You are 13 years old. You are in 9th grade, for heavens sakes. Love shouldn’t even be in your vocabulary yet. Stop being so overly dramatic all the time”,
Sighing from my mental counterpart’s abuse, I met up with my friends. Ariel, Gabby, Cameron. I was still deep in thought, but they didn’t seem to take notice of that. We spent the 15 minute break chatting a bit, with me every second wishing the bell would ring so that I could go to class. When it finally did, Cameron walked me down.
My mind was confused about him. I’m still not sure what to think. He’s about one of the greatest guys I’ve ever met – charming, funny, smart. And usually I would be the very first in line to mash up friendship and crushes, and start liking him. But my mind put its foot down there, and I found it extremely difficult to think of him in any way but a friend.
Ah, teenage girls, and our silly little problems. There are children your age in China working in shops for 10 cents a day, my mother would say. And here you are complaining about how you have a sweet, handsome boy as a friend.
I’ve heard the comparison many times. It’s not the right comparison. The right comparison is to the size of the problem I have with the man I DO love. For if I were with him, I would gladly work my life away in a sweat shop for 10 cents a day. Just to be near him and call him mine. And every single day, I feel guilty for feeling that way. I know I shouldn’t. It’s just wrong. He doesn’t love me back, and there are other boys to whom I would better spend my affection. But I can’t help it. I’ve tried, tried so hard, to make myself feel otherwise, but I simply cannot.
I took my seat. We sat next to each other, now. Every day, for at least one hour a day, I sit down next to him. Some days we talk. Some days we don’t. But every day, I live for that one, simple hour a day. I live. I breath. I hope. I stop hoping. I love.
I took out my planner and began writing down the day’s homework like every day. I was writing, subconsciously aware every second of his presence, when the alarm sounded.
It was a lockdown drill. The teacher locked the door and closed the curtains and all us students got under our desks. Everyone was happy for the lost 5 minutes of class, of course, and no one ever imagined any real danger.
That is, until the gunman burst through the door.

Past that, everything was a haze. I remember nothing of my surroundings and everything of what went through my mind. I saw the gun, lifted and pointed. And I saw myself, running in front of it, and taking the bullet.

With my last, dying breath, I raised myself from the floor where I lay bleeding, and kissed him. As I died, I managed to have my very first and very last kiss.

Life had never been more beautiful than the moment it ended.