Jane Eyre's Playlist
Malorie Richards could not believe this was her reality, though all her senses confirmed that it was, in fact, happening. She could hear the cheering crowd; could hear the marching band as it blasted Taylor Swift's Love Story. She could smell the distinctive aroma of a gymnasium full of adolescents as it mingled with the bouquet of roses cradled in her right arm. She could see the shock, wonder, joy, and jealousy on the various faces she passed. She could feel, though barely, her feet fumbling beneath her as she tried to keep up. Most of all, she could feel the strong, warm hand of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy who was smiling at her as he pulled her across the gym floor with him, and she could faintly feel the lingering tingle of electricity that hand had left on her cheek as it had wiped her tears and pulled her close to him for a tender kiss just seconds before this journey began.
But this journey began way before that, she thought to herself, and then, it was as if time stood still. She could see the entire thing play out in her mind, scene by scene like some teen rom-com that would barely break even at the box office, but it was a good story. It was her story. It was their story.