Sweetly Yours

Chapter Nine; Sweetly Floating

Authors note; Hello, guys. So, this chapter is much shorter than usual--and I'd like you to know that this it intentional, and I wasn't being lazy or anything, aha. I'm also aware that it's entirely Farah's thoughts, with no speech, but I didn't want to ruin the chapter when dialogue wasn't necessary. Enjoy, anyway. :3

Sweetly Yours

Chapter Nine; Sweetly Floating

The power of hindsight is a wondrous thing.

To be able to look into the future, even greater than that. One of the greatest things possible, in my opinion.

Perhaps if I had known what was to come in the next few seconds after turning my hands over, I would not have wrote what I did on that piece of paper that practically summed up the past six months.

But perhaps, I would have, nevertheless.

Until that moment when my eyes burst open, I hadn't known it was physically possible to feel so nervous, so sick with nerves and fright, yet be filled to the brim with such excitement and anticipation, too. For my stomach to be churning with sickness, yet to have butterflies--no, bats,--flapping around eagerly, anticipating what was to come with a tense form of excitement.

My stomach found itself being clenched and then unclenched, repeating over and over, almost doing somersaults, my breathing hitched, coming out in short bursts, my hands shaking like a tambourine as I held my precious paper within my unsteady, jerky hands. It was as if time itself had slowed, perhaps even stopped all together.

The adrenaline I had acquired was rushing my blood through my body, making my head feel light, and a little bit dizzy, almost as if I was floating. 

The air almost seem to be crackling with a rich, diverse energy; tension, nerves, excitement, anticipation, dread, and sheer honesty, all fusing together in this wondrous room, creating an atmosphere entirely like no other. It was irreplaceable.

And to think all of this was caused by a petty confessions game, which had somehow completely reworked my insides within a mere few, agonisingly slow seconds. For me, this game wasn't so petty and nonchalant anymore. This was . . . personal, on a whole new level.

I was admitting my feelings about Jamie through a confessions game, of all of the ways I could of picked.

A freaking confessions game.

The worst thing though, was not knowing what was written on his piece of paper, until he could see mine, too. I wouldn't know if this was all one massive mistake until it was too late.

They say that the worst mistake that anyone can make is being too afraid to make one.

So perhaps, taking the risk was the right thing to do. Confronting your fears, shoving them aside, stepping up, even if it turned sour, at least I would triumph in one area--I would know. I'd have the answer to that one dreaded, hair tugging question that's been looping around constantly in my head for months:

Does he like me too?

There was no point in even attempting to convince myself that I would get over it, if Jamie didn't like me, downright laughed in my face or reacted even worse. I'd cry, of course I would. There would be sleepless nights, constant phone calls and sleepovers with Phoebe, the letter "J" cursed into dark oblivion.

For months, I'd solely dedicated myself to liking and fantasising over the boy who sat across from me. Of course, there was a part of me, buried deep in a dangerous pit of denial, that told me that Jamie didn't like me back, and now it was rapidly clawing it's sticky way to the surface. Whispering in my ear, dreadful, horrible, doubtful things. Words swirled around and around in my head, swaying with a non-existent breeze, keeping in an upbeat rhythm to the blood rushing around in my veins.

My lip trembled uncontrollably, and tears welled in my eyes as the moment came, where Jamie read my coveted confession and I in turn, read his.

Did I really need to read it? Was it really worth the stabbing pain to the chest of inevitable confirmation?

It was obvious the only outcome would be negative.

I could only hope that Jamie wouldn't be too malicious about it.

Slowly, my lips started to mouth the words that I read on Jamie's writing. I tried not to focus on the words first, but his writing, neat and tidy, not messy, and certainly nothing fancy. It fitted him perfectly. I wondered what my name would be like in his lovely font.

Then, the words that I had been mouthing came to the front of my mind, and something inside of me popped.

I don't want you to go back home. EVER.

But . . . what was that supposed to mean?

In a numb, dreamlike, floaty state, I lifted my head, my gaze meeting with Jamie's. Was it the tears already spilling over that were making my vision distorted, or was there a sort of . . . hopeful fascination, about that murky green gaze, that oh, so very handsome face?

My lips parted, but no sound came out. I was literally speechless, my throat dry, hoarse and numb. I attempted to cry out, but to no avail. The room started to dance, spinning and twirling and whirling and--

My eyes fluttered closed, my vision seeping into a blank, misty darkness. I felt the paper float away from my weak hold, my body slump.

For the first time in my life, and for mystifying reasons that I could never truly be entirely sure of, I, Farah Dailey, right in front of my crush, who had just been alerted of the fact that I liked him, and may, by an extremely slight possibility, like me right back . . .

. . . Fainted.