"I never can understand your poetry." I told him as they walked down the sidewalk hand in hand. "All the figurative language messes with my head."
"I never can understand your stories." He replied. "There is no symbolism in the words."
"The symbolism is there, you just don't see it. You dig to deep for something that isn't there. It's not always what the words stand for but the words themselves."
We reached my house and sat silently on the front step. "You're so beautiful that even the blind man can see it/ for your eyes sparkle like the setting sun shining off a rippling lake/ your smile glows like a crescent moon in the middle of the summer."
"That was great, Fishlegs." I told him smiling.
"It's a work in progress, Camicazi. What are you working on?"
"I Am Here. You also messes up on that reference. Camicazi obviously has an epic crush on Hiccup not Fishlegs."
"Well, sorry. You're working on that again. It's already perfect."
"No it's missing something. I'm positive." I lied. I know it's decent. I'll show you my latest project when I finish it. If I finish it.
"Well, you'll figure it out. You always do." He leaned in, brushing away my chocolate brown hair, and kissed my forehead. "I've got to go. I'll call you tonight. Bye Adorable!" He got into his car and drove off.
I went to my room and turned on my laptop. I clicked on the file 'Outcast the Wolf' and began typing:
'I say that I love you because your happiness is very important to me. I like it when I'm the reason why you smile. I feel protected when you hold me. Can you see how much I love you? The color of your eyes has been my favorite color since I met you. I love the way you play with my hair and when you say you love me. I want you to be happy, with or without me. You complete me. Yes, I love you.'
I ended up deleting it and I couldn't think of anything else to add so I gave up and logged off the computer.
For the rest of the night I layed on my bed reading Warriors. It wasn't until eight that my phone started playing Killer by The Ready Set.
"Hello Hazel Grace, how goes the writing?"
I smiled, "Horrible, I have a severe case of writer's block. How about you Augustus Waters?"
"Same here." We sat there forever just jumping from one topic to another. "Do you want to come over tomorrow and watch Avengers?"
"Sure, what time should I come over?"
"How about noon, since you don't wake up until eleven." He joked.
"Okay." I yawned. "I better get to sleep so I can wake up in time."
"Okay. Goodnight my Adorable Raccoon."
"Goodnight Groot." I reluctantly hung up and put on his Iron Man shirt, and went to sleep.
"Good afternoon, Milady." He greeted as I arrived.
"It's eleven fifty five so technically it's still morning, Hiccup." I corrected
"Always so technical."
His mom was at work so we took over the living room. We turned on the movie and laid down on the couch. I flipped up my hood, which had ears attached and rested my head on his chest. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. I heard his heart drum and to the beat I fell asleep.
"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty."
"It's actually afternoon now, Prince Philip." I noticed he had his journal and a pencil. "What are you writing?"
"Nothing." He closed it quickly. "Just working on one of my poems. It's hard to write with a wolf laying on you." I playfully licked the tip of his nose.
"Can I see it?"
"Not yet." To prove his point he tossed his journal across the room.
Later that night I was working on my story again:
'I know you're not the cutest guy in the world, but something about you makes my heart drop to my feet.
'Sure, I talk to other guys, but I don't talk to them the way I talk to you. Sure, those other guys can make me smile, but they don't make me smile as much as you do. Sure, they can make me laugh, but they can't make the laugh the way you do. Yeah, there's a lot of other guys out there, but none of them compare to you. My heart is already set on you.
'I don't care about money, or what you can buy me. I don't care about dates, or showing you off to people. All I care about is being with you and knowing I'm not going to loose you.
'I'm not a perfect girl. My hair doesn't stay in place and I spill things a lot. I'm pretty clumsy and sometimes I have a broken heart. My friends and I sometimes fight and some days nothing seems to go right. But when I take a step back and think about it I remember how amazing life really is and I realize I like being imperfect.
'You make me feel beautiful. You're there for me when nobody else is. You make me laugh. You accept me for who I am. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.'
I almost fell out of my chair when why phone when off. I calmed down when I saw his name show as the caller ID
"Hello Mr. J."
"Hello, Harley. I was wondering if you would want to go to dinner with me?"
"Like right now."
"Oh, okay. Where at?"
"Okay great. I'll be over in ten minutes to pick you up. Bye."
I printed my writing. "Mom, can I go to dinner with my friends?" I called thumping down the stairs.
"By friends you mean boyfriend right? I don't know."
"Mom, Matt's at his tutor and it's not like we're gonna do anything."
"Fine, as long as you're home by eleven."
"K." I ran back up the stairs to comb my hair.
After five minutes the door bell rang and my dogs went crazy. "He's here!" My mom called from her office. I thumped down the stairs as I pulled on my Rocket Raccoon jacket.
"Ah, Rose Tyler." He greeted as I opened the door.
"Where are we going this time, Doctor?"
"Let's see where the TARDIS takes us." He held open the door to his dark blue Mini Cooper.
After our meal at Red Robin we went to the park by my house and were sitting on the swings under a streetlight.
"Yeah Han Solo?"
"I wanted to give you this." He handed me a piece of notebook paper.
"Here. This is for you." I handed him my latest work.
I unfolded the paper and read:
'She has a bookshelf for a heart,
And ink runs through her veins,
She'll write you into her story,
With the typewriter in her brain,
Her bookshelf's getting crowded,
Within all the stories she's penned,
Of all the people who flicked through her pages,
But closed the book before the end,
And there's one pushed to the very back,
That sits collecting dust,
With it's title in her finest writing,
"The One's Who Lost My Trust",
There's books she's scared to open,
And books she doesn't close,
Stories of every person she's met,
Stretched out into endless rows,
Some people only have a sentence,
While others once held a main part,
Thousands of inky footprints,
That they've left across her heart,
You might wonder why she does this,
Why write of people she once knew?
But she hopes one day she'll mean enough,
For someone to write about her too.'
"This...this is beautiful." I told him.
"We both belong to art. We both belong to writing. But we both belong to different groups."
"But fuck the group system." He finished and he pulled me off the swing. We stood there under the streetlight and he kissed me. "I love you my Novelist."
"I love you my Poet."
Author Notes: If you see any errors could you please leave a comment. I'd love feed back. Thanks!