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    Our love is so beautiful. It was something I couldn't live without, yet nobody must know of it. You had me when I first walked into your classroom, and you called my name. The gentle, yet resounding way you said, "Trevor Humbert." I raised my hand, letting you know I was there. I am here, and always will be.
        I go to sleep thinking of your brown eyes, behind those thick, black spectacles, and how I would wake up with your chestnut hair blanketing my pale face. Before I leave my house with my younger brother, Jeff, to see you, I grab a glass of water and glance at an orange medication bottle.
        It's still empty. I need to remember to call in a refill. However, I feel like a new man. I don't need them anymore, especially since I have you now.
        I can recall back to when I didn't know if you felt the same way during the first couple of weeks at Nabokov High School. As I was the new kid in a new school, my insecurities took control of me. That, and the fact I was a junior and had never kissed a girl. I had no idea my first kiss wouldn't be from a girl but from a woman, Miss Dolores.
        Now, those insecurities have fled. We've exchanged a few words with each other, but our eyes have been doing most of the talking. You gave me your hypnotic glare telling me, "Yes." And from then on, that is all I ever wanted to hear from you. You told me to keep what we have hushed, and that nobody could know about us. So I started writing you love letters.
        I told you how sexy you looked in your kitty-cat costume on Halloween. You respected my decision to not dress up, for what I truly wanted to be would've got us into terrible trouble. I still dress-up when alone at home, walking around bare, exposed in my room as—

         ...your sex slave.

        The note you gave me has your phone number, which I desire. However, when I called, you didn't answer. Why is that?
        Christmas is around the corner. I can't stop thinking and dreaming of you. I'm so giddy. I feel I gotta tell somebody.
        My younger brother, Jeff, a sophomore, sees you after lunch for English. He doesn't believe me when I speak about you. Now, I have to show him it is indeed true. I'm dating the hot English teacher, Miss Dolores.
       Before I see you in class, I grab Jeff and show him your letters, your phone number, your red lipstick kisses, and passionate perfume; I tell him who these are from.
        He can't believe it. He is shocked. And, so was I when he asked, "Dude, you know Miss Dolores is like seventy-years old, right? And all these letters appear to be in your handwriting, even the ones supposedly from her. Are you off your meds again?"

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