I hate Summer.
I hate Summer. romance stories

atticussp Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   3 months ago
Summertime crush, a hint of sugary sweet and the sour taste of raspberry. Short and gone.

Inspired by cmbyn and writer's personal life.

I hate Summer.

I met him two summers ago.

I remembered walking into the classroom and thinking to myself: I want to sit next to someone hot and interesting. "How shallow!", you are probably saying, and I agree.

But I wanted that summer to be a bit special. One summer that made me feel, well, magical.

I left a seat in between us, thinking that I better control how I come across to this man. Silly of me to think a space in between us could cover up my intentions.

The space was a statement: here's the space between us which none of us should cross.

A space that leaves our hearts and mind open, with no wallowing in bitter "what-ifs"; but a safe, and neutral ground for both of our souls to play on.

He reminded me of summer.

Maybe it was the light chemical smell from swimming pools and the warmth of sunshine that rests on top of his skin. He became a physical reminder of how little time we have.

Every class, I would try to show up earlier. So early in fact, the lights hadn't turned on by the time I arrived. The air in the room was still cool from the night before, untampered by the hot summer wind.

I walked over to the coffee shop across the street, ordered my iced latte, walked back to the room and there he sat. Every time. On time.

Sometimes I laughed at myself at how deep I looked into those "signs". Signs that might or might not be signs. Signs that fed my perversion. Signs that I chose to look into.

Maybe this is the kind of innate flaw that all humans share, whether we practice it or not; signs are vital to our survival. Signs are necessary for reading. Signs are vital for that summer.

I knew I was treading a very thin line. There were moments that almost pushed me over that line, doing things that I would be ashamed of.

There were moments that I needed to remind myself that there was a line, even if they invited you to cross- you should not.

Sharing earbuds on the bench, picking raspberries from a nearby river, about flowers, about plants, about fruits; about how our shoulder touches,

about how my hands are so tiny when it's on yours, palm to palm.

Summer is a memory. A memory that belongs to the smell of sunshine and the sour raspberries. It belongs to the taste of anticipation and the sugar cookies.

I met him two summers ago.

And I regretted Summer.

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