And then I saw her, for the first time I put a face to the name that had been circling my mind all morning. "Miss Adams, could you tell me about this week's reading homework?" But as she begins to speak, I don't listen to a single word she says. Instead, I just watch the way her round lips move as she talks, easily giving me an answer so in depth I'm sure I would be pleased with if I was listening to her. It's almost as if her lips are floating, they move so elegantly and swiftly, and the soft shade of pink I think looks so delicious is capturing me completely. The contours of her delicate skin have to be moulded by the God's, sculpted by what only can be artists. The green of her eyes brighter than my own. Her dark and glowing hair sits comfortably on her shoulders, not drawing from any of her facial features, but framing her face in such a refined way that makes her more of a mystery to me. I notice her lips have stopped moving and clear my throat. "Well done Miss Adams, an adequate answer." "Thank you, Professor Styles." She smiles gently.

Don't you call her baby. We're not talking lately. Don't you call her what you used to call me... A story in which a girl who writes songs falls in love with the boy who sings them. "Color...What a deep and mysterious language, the language of dreams." - Paul Gauguin. DO NOT PRINT MY BOOKS! *TW: story contains mature topics such as mental abuse, PTSD, minor drug usage, and minor sexual content.*