Her Name is Sorrel

Her Name is Sorrel

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Her name is Sorrel. It’s Cherokee or something. First name: Shelby; middle name: Sorrel. I called her “squirrel.” While the other guys were falling head over heels into her large, fawn eyes, I avoided them. She was practically a liberal hippie. Bohemian linen pants, deep brown hair skimming her waist, floral canvas backpack. Different. Come sophomore year and the flood gates of hell opened - never had English been so difficult. So like a twist of fate, I found Sorrel sitting next to me and like any logical person, I took advantage of my resources - the girl was practically Ralph Waldo Emerson trapped in the body of a teenage girl. Then I fell; I fell hard. I fell for her laugh that sounded like a dying walrus. I fell for her crooked teeth. I fell for her Nesquik eyes that had hints of green trapped in the spectrum. “Forever,” she’d whisper. But forever isn’t tangible. This an anecdote of my first heartbreak. It’s a story about love; not a love story.
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It was supposed to be anonymous. Just some harmless, late-night messeges on a forum. No names. No photos. No real-life complications. She was GoldTrap-mysterious, sharp, and way too good with words. I was BlueInk-awkward, sarcastic, and definitely not looking for anything. But then she made me laugh. Then she made me think. Then... she made me feel things I really shouldn't be feeling for someone I've never met. I'm Quinn. Twenty-four. Screenwriter-in-training. Emotionally a little chaotic and basically there no reason an amazing woman like her would be falling for someone like me. I've played a lot of roles in my life. But never this one. ----------------------------------------------- Late at night, I started writing letters to a stranger on a private forum-just to feel something real. She calls herself BlueInk. She's young, clever, infuriatingly honest... and somehow, she sees right through me. She doesn't know I'm Juliette Delaney-Hollywood's favorite ice queen with a face on every magazine and a life that doesn't belong to me anymore. She doesn't know that when I type, my hands shake. That when I read her replies, I smile. That I'm craving her words more than I've ever craved the spotlight. And I don't know what will happen if she finds out who I am. Because if I tell her the truth, I might lose the one person who loves me for who I really am. Not the icon. Not the actress. Just... me. But if I don't? I'll never get to feel her say my name out loud.

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