So this is what love feels like, just looking at her keeps me stuck in a trance, one minute look at her jeggings hugging every curve of her body makes me slip into bliss. She is so beautiful to me, all I want is for her to be amazing, for her not to even love me, just to know that she is loved... Maybe it's just lust. I'm only seventeen, what would I know about love? These were constant thoughts that tormented me day after day. At that age, school was too easy and loving school was too hard. Every time he moved, my neck almost broke from waiting to see if he would come towards me; It didn't really help that he was in three of my five classes. I couldn't write a word, solve an equation, or draw a picture without thinking of her. Everything about her drove me crazy; his eyes, like two drops of the Milky Way, prevent me from seeing the hindered splendor that flowed in his mind and seductive enough to make me lose myself for hours. On top of those jewels were exact replicas of the Gateway Arch, as if it were a shame to have even a single follicle out of place. And his lips. My God! Her lips were like butter, kissing her was almost impossible, I slipped in and out of reality at random. Those treasures, which soon became a favorite delight, did nothing but prevent the world from seeing those marble sculptures that must have been designed by Michelangelo himself. When I pulled away from her gravity, I succumbed to the sight of her sun-kissed complexion and was immediately catapulted to the moon, a journey I took in stride. But the meilleure partie - the best part - of her untouchable beauty was her hair, dark as the black panthers that must have roamed that pristine jungle that found it necessary to frame this ago...... middle of paper... .. .me in the corridors. But at the time I was young and shy, lacking the confidence I would later discover was necessary to have. When I first had the opportunity to talk to her it was our senior year, the year all the stars aligned and allowed me to do it. I have three lessons with her. 7:40. Every day I waited outside my math class – a subject for which I usually have an unquenchable contempt. I sat in the back left corner of the classroom, so the teacher couldn't see me looking at the clock, waiting until 8:10 when she would come in. A gift every day for me. She sat one row up and three seats in front of me, in a gust she floated to her chair with her Starbucks coffee cup and black velvet bag, with a pink bottle of hand sanitizer hanging off to the side. All before the rusty door creaks shut, the perfect way to start the day.