Aflame.

His name was Andrew, and he drove me insane.

He’d moved into the house next door to me when I was five. Short and skinny with his hair cut too short, he was obsessed with me. Wherever I went, so did Andrew.

We were in the same kindergarten class, much to my chagrin. Andrew insisted on napping next to me, being in all of my groups, everything. I never had a moment alone until first grade. Even though we had different classes then, everyday at recess, he was next to me on the swings. He would not leave me alone.

That was one determined seven-year-old.

By second grade, though, rumors of cooties had hit, and Andrew quickly pretended I did not exist. At first, I was relieved, then… lonely. It was odd not having Andrew around constantly, and I sort of missed it. He was smaller than me, his hair was too short, and he asked me to marry him everyday. But I was an awkward child then, and he was my only friend.

This continued up until high school. By then, cooties were long gone - kids worried about STDs instead. Andrew and I had grown up. I was nowhere near popular, instead choosing to don on a lot of black and write bad, whiny poetry. Andrew, however, was well-liked. He wasn’t a jock, which was normally what it took. But he was gorgeous. He grew to be taller than almost everyone and muscular. Andrew had shaggy dirty-blonde hiar, and the most amazing blue-green eyes you’d ever see. He attracted girls like honey drew flies.

I figured by now, he’d totally forgotten about me, despite being my neighbor. I was wrong.

Devin McAlpin, Andrew’s best friend and our other neighbor, threw a graduation party our senior year. I was bored, lonely, and depressed (my usual state of mind in high school), and so I went. The party was loud and obnoxious and most people were drunk. Within ten minutes, I’d found my way upstairs, and in a dark, empty room. I couldn’t see anything, but I found my way to the windowsill. Sitting down, I looked at the huge, full moon, and sighed feeling a bit melancholy. Again, I pondered suicide, something that often plagued me then.

Within five minutes, someone stumbled in. I screamed, and almost fell out of the window.

“Whoa!” A male voice said, turning on a lamp and grabbing my wrist. “Sorry, Rose. You okay?

“Y-yeah,” I said. I hadn’t been that close to Andrew Dawson in years. He was so incredibly attractive, I had to catch my breath. “I’m fine. What are you doing up here?”

He sat down on the bed I now could see. (The room seemed to be some sort of guestroom.) “I’m not a big fan of parties.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and cocked at eyebrow. “I wouldn’t expect that from you.”

He chuckled. “What, do I seem like some party animal?”

“Yes,” I replied honestly. I prided myself on telling nothing but the truth.

“I’m not,” He said matter-of-factly. “I’d rather be playing my guitar or drawing or something.”

Apparently, I wasn’t the only honest one. “I didn’t know you did either of those things.”

He looked at me. “We haven’t really talked much since we were kids, have we?”

I shook my head.

“Well,” He smiled. “Talk.”

“You first,” I laughed. “Tell me about guitar and drawing.”

He ran a hand through his dark hair. “I’ve been playing guitar since I was twelve. Music just… makes sense to me. It calms me down, it pumps me up, it’s there when no one else is. It’s amazing.”

I smiled. “It’s the same way for me. I love music.”

“Oh really?” He grinned. “Maybe I’ll play for you sometime, then.”

I grinned back. “Okay. Now, drawing.”

“I’ve always drawn,” He shrugged. “Something about putting a beautiful scene on paper makes me happy. Like, look at the moon.” Andrew gestured out the open window. “Don’t you want to keep that forever, to capture it?”

Thinking about it briefly, I nodded. “That’s what cameras are for, though.”

“Pictures are good,” He agreed. “But you can click a button and feel nothing, and the photo is still perfect. With drawing, you have to have emotion behind it.”

“You know,” I said slowly, examining him. “You are a lot different than your appearance would suggest.”

He laughed, shrugged. “I get told that a lot.”

“Is this the secret behind the boy?” I teased lightly.

“Nope,” He teased back. “The secret is that most weekends, I work on a ranch. I don’t go party or anything. I shovel hay and horse poo for $100 a weekend.”

I burst into laughter. “Not exactly the glamorous job I imagined for Andrew Dawson. That why you’re all built?”

He flexed his arms. “Hell yes. So, now, what about you? Why do you always looked so pained?”

I frowned, then tried to hide it when I realized that that was probably exactly what he was talking about. “Maybe I’m some tortured soul.”

This seemed to amuse Andrew. “How are you so tortured?”

“My dad,” I told him before I could shut up. Andrew may have been an old friend, but I couldn’t trust anyone with my secrets. The change in the conversation had caught me off-guard. “He’s an asshole.”

“How?” He seemed sincerely concerned.

“He just…” I struggled for words. “He never has anything nice to say, and he drinks too much. Sometimes, when he drinks, he hits me. It’s just hard to have good self-esteem when someone is always putting you down.”

“You should have great self-esteem,” He said, just as sincerely as ever. “You’re… beautiful.”

“You’re the first person to ever say that…” I said softly, but before I could say anything else, he’d caught my lips with his. And while I’d be kissed before, this lit me on fire.

We made out for about fifteen minutes. It had started out sort of innocent, but got hotter and hotter as the seconds passed. I still felt aflame, and I wanted to do nothing but kiss Andrew Dawson for the rest of my life.

Someone broke the moment by walking in, drunk enough to reek, but quickly walked back out. Still, we had sprung apart at the sound of the door opening, and were now looking around awkwardly. The door was still open, and people kept looking in.

“I should -” I started, but then Devin McAlpin walked in and dragged Andrew out, laughing. My face and my pride burned, until Andrew turned around and mouthed the words I’m sorry and I realized I could never be mad at him.

Time passed after that party. I went to college to pursue my writing (I’d turned to fiction instead of poetry), and I hadn’t heard from Andrew in years. I thought about him, and that night constantly. For some reason, I had let my guard down, and it hadn’t stabbed me in the back. He hadn’t stabbed me in the back. And no other kiss had lit me on fire like Andrew’s had.

I’m at home for Christmas break my third year of college. Twenty-one now, I can’t stop looking out the window to Andrew’s house. I can’t stop wondering if he’s there. I can’t stop thinking about him, and I can’t stop wanting to know if he’s thought about me.

Thought I hadn’t seen Andrew in three years, I want him as badly now as I did at Devin McAlpin’s party.

Sighing, I turn back to my writing. I’m stuck again, the story of a blind girl not coming out the way I want it to. Figuring out where I want it to go is like putting together a one-thousand piece puzzle, and I’m starting to think my dog at the piece I need.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The taps on my window make me nervous, but I still look outside. And suddenly, as tall and beautiful as ever, there is Andrew Dawson, grinning and throwing rocks out my window like the world’s best cliché.

I hurry down the stairs impatiently, then run to where he is. “Hey.”

“Hi,” He says back, smiling warmly. I feel like I’m standing in front of a fire; he always seems to set me aflame. His hair is still long and shaggy and blonde, and his eyes are still the same color of the sea on a pretty day, but he looks different. Older. Better.

“What are you doing here?” I say, not managing to keep the smile off my face.

Andrew laughs, and it warms me up even more. “You left me wanting more, and you expected that I wouldn't come back to get it?”

“I -” But before I can finish, like in high school, Andrew is kissing me again and setting me on fire the way only he can.

Yet again, I want to kiss him forever. And this time, I’ll figure out someway to make that happen.