Beautiful, green eyes, color the hair of honey, an all American girl,

oh, how I want to hold her hand, beautiful.

But I've never uttered a word to her and she can't tell me apart from the

rest of the crowd.

I'm just another ordinary boy, in love with a girl who won't give him a

second look.

A beauty she is, but her heart can never belong to someone like me.

A boyfriend twice my size, on the football team, blonde hair, blue eyes with

superiority that should make me think twice.

They fit with one another, ever so perfectly.

It would be wrong of me to ruin that, so I watch her from afar. I wonder if

she'd mind.

All American girl, all American boy.

I've told myself, time and time again, "I'm going to talk to her today.

She's going to love me," but I keep walking every time, and every time, I

go back to loving her in that special place, unrequited.

Her favorite color is purple.

Her favorite band is the Strokes.

She lives for the sunshine and if it weren't for her contacts, she'd wear

glasses.

She lives with her dad and wants to visit Paris.

She quit the cheer squad because she doesn't like their routines and because

she didn't want to be the cheerleader-dates-football-player stereotype. Gets a bit tipsy at parties and wears flannels on Tuesdays.

She chips her nails and can't manage to beat traffic on Mondays, showing up

to school at 7:49, every other day. She has two friends, girls, one's middle name is Zoey.

She takes showers in the middle of the night and doesn't eat breakfast on

Friday, because she uses that time to apply make-up. She hates being part of trends, and she's not exactly the most popular.

She doodles little trees on the margins of her notebooks.

She has a guilty pleasure; on some days after school, on other days during

lunch, she sits in the library, cuddled against the romance shelf, engulfed in

a novel.

She'll never know my name.

She'll never know my favorite constellation or my zodiac sign.

But to me, she's a bit like a star.

She seems so close, but when I take a step back, I realize she's so far

away.

She seems to spend all the time in her head, travel to the moon and back.

What is the thinking of?

Could it be me?

Oh, don't be so silly.

She's a bit like the moon.

Everyone sees the wonder of her, but all she sees is how alone she is

compared to the world.

She's a bit like a comet.

Hurdling light years past you and you might miss her, but once you see her

from up close, you'll see all the craters that have hit her over time and how

small impacts have completely altered her course.

She's a bit like shooting stars.

I've never seen something so illuminating that I am left in awe.

She's a little bit like a black hole.

Once you're sucked in, there's no way out.

She's a bit like a soft love song.

She's a bit like an ornament of silver.

I can never tell you her favorite constellation.

I can never tell you what she thinks of on the clear night skies while

looking at the moon.

I can never tell you the first observatory she visited.

I can never tell you what her room looks like or where she wants to live.

I can never tell you what she does once she gets home or if she smells like

outer space.

I can never tell you what she wants to do in life or even before she dies.

Because even stars- how many light years old they may be- all die.

Even after death, preserved she will be, stardust, up for display in a

museum, quiet and empty, for no one to see.

After death, all I'm ever going to be is ashes, dumped out, into the sea,

mistaken for sand, resting with all those who were never meant to be.

There's a space for her, of degrees below Celcius, frigid. Only 17 and

there's already a spot in the vastly calm darkness for her, even if she can be

reckless at times, as long as it doesn't take her over.

Then her all-American football player boyfriend took her ornament of silver,

carefully crafted and thought he held nothing but an ornament, not knowing he

was holding the world in his hands. Her ornament of silver fell on the floor

for everyone to see. She fell to her knees, not caring about the scene, holding

the particles of stardust in her arms, hugging what was left of her so closely,

not even tears could mend what was left of a star, no, it was too hard.

So I wrote her this letter,

and I left her some flowers,

from a Secret Admirer.

I saw her beam,

she looked left and right,

but couldn't find the admirer.

It was while writing in this letter, I asked her to be my date for the

upcoming Valentine's dance. For the moment I watched her, I felt her little

ornament of silver in my fist, resurrected. I'd never laid my eyes on anything

more breathtakingly beautiful.

Oh, I could've died.

I was eager to meet her,

so many times I'd fantasized,

let my mind drift near hers,

through cosmic variables,

spoil myself with all the lovely things I could say to her,

and she'd see me,

suit and tie,

realize I've been the one all along.

Valentine's night fell on a thin coat of breeze and dim lighting. She was

waiting outside, in the hallway. The white wall she was leaning

against complimented her sun-kissed skin and green eyes. Her hair, curled, the

color of honey. A dark blue dress, the color of the night sky. I didn't breathe

for a second or two, maybe more. Her lips were glossed with a flirty pink. She

looked so darling in those silver heels. Oh, I just couldn't think, she deserved

to be loved.

But the way cowards do and have always done,

I kept walking,

walked right past her,

and into the heap of red and pink lights,

right into the dance,

took a seat.

For 10 minutes I debated returning outside for her or leaving out fate to

chance, maybe my ashes would meet her stardust again in another life.

"Hello." I stood next to her.

"Hey," she replied, a vodka flask peaking out of her small bag.

"You've been out here for a while now."

She nodded. I looked off into the distance, into the sky, clouds, no stars, no

stardust.

Without that extra reel of support, I collect scraps of bravery the clouds

left me. "I came alone and it looks like you've been stood up if I'm

telling you the honest truth. Surely he has his reasons for missing out on you

tonight, but right now, you don't have to waste another moment. So I ask, would

you like to go inside and have a dance, maybe two?"

Her green eyes seep into mine and her hesitance makes me wish I were blind.

How did I ever think I stood a chance, think that ashes and stardust- She takes

my hand and I open my eyes.

Inside, blinded by love songs and tacky blubbery babies,

we sway against each other,

she hands me her flask from time to time.

We're both tipsy before the night even starts. She smells like blueberries

and cinnamon. It almost reminds me of pancakes. She smells like morning

sunrises. She doesn't smell like the cosmos or supernovas.

We're slow dancing now and she's hearing the erratic elevation of my

heartbeats as her head rests on my chest. She looks up at me, unwraps a hand

from around my neck and brings it to my cheek. My heart speeds, so I close my

eyes, hope it isn't a dream.

Then I feel her warm breath in my ear, I open my eyes. "I know you've

been watching me." My ear may be warm, but my heart turns cold because my

pulse has stopped and I exhale my final breath.

I look down at her hoping to god she's joking, but instead she's searching

for the answers in my eyes. She whispers, "It's okay. I've been watching

you too." She must be kidding. This doesn't happen. Ashes don't compare to

stardust, never have, never will. I must be dreaming. I hold onto her tighter,

because it can only be someone's idea of a sick joke. My eyes scan the room, no

one's watching. It's just her and I. "Can we go outside?" she asks.

I nod and lead her out the door. We sit and I see her body tense as her skin

makes contact with the metal bench. She continues the conversation, "You

know my favorite color is purple, that I listen to the Strokes, I live with my

dad and I used to wear glasses, but I wonder: How long have you been watching

me?"

I avert my eyes as she's searching for mine. "Sometimes, when you hide

out in the library, reading romance novels, you have the volume so high, I can

hear it from the aisle away. Most of the time it's the Strokes."

"What's in the next section?"

"Mystery and thriller novels. How- How long have you known?" Due

to the alcohol in my bloodstream, I find myself a little more honest and a

little more friendly. I remove my blazer and hang it on her shoulders. She fits

her hands through the sleeves, too large for her, I laugh and she's laughing

with me.

She lies down, her head on my lap. "The day you left the flowers and

letters in my locker. You were watching me before I even got there. I pretended

to be so engrossed in the letter, but from the corner of my eye, you were

staring, but when I searched for your face, you turned away. I've had a couple

suspects in mind, but then I saw you walk in and I was almost, almost sure it

was you, but you kept walking. I began to wonder if there was an admirer after

all. Then you asked me to dance, and I, I just knew." My fingers are

gently caressing her cheeks, rosy from the 50 degree weather. She repeats the

question with the same tenderness as before, "How long have you been

watching me?"

I lick my lips, not ready to answer the question, so I hang my head in

shame, but I begin, "It was the end of sophomore year. You needed to have

your entire schedule changed because of reasons left to speculation. What made

it even weirder was that there was only a month left of school. Every time a

new student transferred, 5 students would share who they are. The new student

goes last. I sat all the way across the room. After everyone went, you asked

the girl next to you if she could record it on your phone. Unlike everyone

else, you walked up to the front of the classroom and told us about yourself.

'Hey, my name is Cordelia, but everyone just calls me Nova. My favorite color's

purple and I live with my dad.' You wore your glasses, but once junior year

began, they were gone."

She's rubbing my hand with her free one and finishes the memory with

me,"I wanted to reassure my dad that I was going to do just fine."

She presses her fingers to her temple and complains about her dizziness, too

intoxicated. She laughs at her low tolerance, "Don't you ever do anything

other than stare?"

I smile weakly. She continues, "Tell me, what's your favorite

color?"

"Navy."

"Favorite band?"

"The Killers."

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Filmmaker."

"Why?"

"I love telling stories."

She's intrigued, but lowers her voice to a hum. "You see? Now am I that

unapproachable?"

She begins telling me about her life, all the Whys and Hows of it all.

Spaces I had so carefully filled with details the size of small specks, but

there she was, telling me she quit the cheer squad because of a leg injury.

I've always told myself it's because she doesn't want to be a high school

stereotype. She gets to school late on Mondays because she smokes a quick joint

in her backyard. I've always told myself it's because she stays up a bit later

than on most nights, reading romance novels.

She's telling me all these things but I don't want to hear the Whys and the

Hows. It's a lot better when she leaves that up to me.

She gets up, her head off my lap, hugs her stomach, groans, then bitterly

laughs. "You know what sucks?" She doesn't wait for my response but

continues, "I never drink, and I've drank so much that I probably won't

remember tomorrow." She remains in the same position until it is clear to

her she won't throw up.

In a sense I'm almost happy she won't remember, because then we can go back

to the way we were before. A before where our love is unrequited.

She asks me to take her home, so I do. On the ride there I find myself

thinking how much easier it is, to love her on a land she doesn't know about,

on a land she'll never visit. I walk her to the front steps of her porch.

"Thank you," she says, handing me back my blazer.

"For the ride? Oh, it was no problem-"

"No," she cuts me off. "For loving me, when no one else knew

it, when no one else would. Thank you for giving me the love story I've long

awaited." I see shivers run up her spine. It's something so wonderful, so

frightening at the same time. "After this," she continues,

"We'll go out on a couple dates, fall deeper in love, and one day, we'll

tell the story again, time after time, happy." I wonder if she'd tell me

all these things while sober.

It's a lot more easier admire her from afar, watch her walk away than it is

to chase after her and ask her to stay.

She hands me her number, tells me we should go out this weekend. I smile

broadly, knowing perfectly well, I won't call. "I'm glad you found me. I

know there's going to be so much more to us."

The next morning, I watched her in the library, next to the romance shelf.

A goofy grin on her face, staring up at the ceiling, fantasizing, letting

her mind drift near mine.

I thought I'd be dead by now.

But it seems as if I'm still breathing.

So I'll make the most of it. By life, I mean.

At first, I thought this was a joke.

It aired on the news and I figured it was some kind of prank. Probably because I never watch the news.

But then I changed the channel. There it was again, and again. And again.

It seemed as if everyone else was in on a joke I had no part in.

Well, that was until the disease struck our town and the joke was on everyone. Steven, town's douchebag, was the first one in town to fall ill. Within the hours, his family had to lock him up in their basement. This type of stuff only happens on TV. I'd know, because of how many series I've binge watched on my living room couch. It was such a trend, like two years ago, so in my opinion, the zombie apocalypse came a little too late, but whatever. Better late than never.

Shame that I won't know how The Walking Dead is going to end. That was the only reason I jumped onto the zombie bandwagon and became obsessed with being the last man standing. Just like any obsession, it ended, and quite recently actually. So without all that gear, I may as well go rogue and use the bat my grandmother keeps stored for rainy day intruders.

I turn on the joke. The anchor on the channel says there are near 100 people infected and 79 lost causes on top of that.

I think I've seen too many conspiracy theories, because I'm 86.7% convinced that the government has released the disease, rather than it originating in a river somewhere in Africa. I think it's a lab born disease, made by a group of geniuses who actually know what they're doing. Or maybe some morons, much like myself were messing in their parents' lab and released the most contagious bacteria in the planet. I can't blame them really, but why in this small town, smack-dab in the middle of Washington state?

There's a cry for help and desperation knocks on my front door. It's barely 10 PM. The voice sounds familiar come to think of it. It takes me a solid moment, but I know who's outside of my door. Jenny, my ex. She dumped me after I deliberately chose to drop out of high school, oh, 3 months ago give or take.

I open the door. Won't that look cool on my tombstone?

Jeff Bridges, died in honor of saving lives during the zombie apocalypse.

Wait. If I get bitten, I won't have a tombstone. What a dumb-ass.

I consider not opening the door for a moment.  We'd been together for 18 months, even if after she dumped me, I was surprisingly fine. But I owe a lot to Jenny, so I open the door.

It's not Jenny though.