¿ɪꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴀʟʟ ʀᴇᴀʟ? ✰𝘼𝙡𝙚𝙭 𝙏𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙧 𝙊𝙣𝙚 𝙎𝙝𝙤𝙩𝙨✮

✰. 39

In My Life

✰

The endless sounds of pen scraping on paper and small murmurs were the only thing alive in the quiet home. Up in the comfort of your room, you sat at your recently organized desk after a long while of nagging from your parents. It was nice outside, a constant roll of clouds blocking the sun occasionally, but you had your window closed so as to not let the wind bother your assignment. Two books were stacked on display in front of you; one smaller than the other, both of which you were reading.

"War is peace," you mumbled as your vision narrowed on the letters that were being written on paper. "Freedom is slavery... ignorance is strength. A slogan that is repetitive in George Orwell's popular novel, '1984', can be seen as a form of... propaganda and a core principle of... Ingsoc..."

You wrote as you continued to speak to yourself. Of course, reading almost always came with an assignment. Rhetoric analysis was the assigned lesson for this book. Not that you minded, it was better than reading about a prince who seeks revenge for his father's ghost. To be or not to be, that is the question.

"I chose to be smart," you picked up 1984 and flipped through a variety of pages. No matter how many times you did it, you always landed on a certain page. The only line highlighted in pink throughout the entire book.

"If you loved someone, you loved him, and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him love."

Taken out of context, it was a very sweet thought. It made you think of that silly little boy with the silliest accent who, oh so, nonchalantly, according to him, confessed his love for you with a dozen white roses and a kiss on your temple underneath the sheet of a billion blinking stars.

You could recall a different story. One of that boy who stumbled over his words from time to time and poured out his heart just by looking at a small drawing of a heart with his and your initials inside the shape. And of course, a dozen white roses and a kiss on your temple underneath the sheet of a billion blinking stars.

The sound of a small rock hitting your window broke you out of your daze. You peeked over your desk, face almost against the glass and saw a familiar face standing in your overgrown front yard. You opened the window, letting in the fresh air travel through your room.

"Yes?" You asked.

"I came to see you! What are you doing?" He looked so small from your window.

You lifted the book, 1984, "Two years before the year you were born. This could have been nonfiction."

He smudged tall pieces of grass on his shoe and murmured, "Thank God, it isn't." He looked up, seeing the sun peeking out through the clouds and seeing its rays make contact with your skin. "Remember my love confession?"

"How could I not?" You reached over to the wall of your desk where many photos, letters, and pieces of art hung in disarray. You found that simple piece of paper with a poorly drawn heart and two initials.

"Remember the Shakespeare reference? I have a surprise for you."

You put the note down and leaned forward, resting your arms on the sill of the window and seeing him run his hands through his hair.

"But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she,
It is my lady, O, it is my love!"

He finished his proud devotion of love with a dramatic point to you at the last line of Romeo’s greeting to Juliet on the balcony. You watched him stand there for many seconds and not once did he waver. You blinked, exhaled, and soon, a smile appeared on your face following a fit of laughs. Only then was it that he put his arm down and stuck out his bottom lip.