laguna.

There's something dangerous about the conspiring love of teenage girls.

Mistaken for infatuation, attachment, obsession, when all it ever was and is, love. The undeniable longing for someone that you can't possibly seem to have enough of. The pitter and patter of your heartbeat, like a band of drums, a band only you can hear. The sheath of pink fuzzy feelings in your stomach, that grows pinker and pinker the closer you get to them.

Love is universal. It's strikingly unique. And it's in all of us. Even the good and bad.

Love is so controlling, like a puppet master playing with your strings one by one. A thief in the night, someone who snatches your heart away the second you actually seem to have control of it again. That's love.

Shea thought that what she had with Laguna was love. The all-nighters the two would pull on call. The exchange of the smoothest of smooth pebbles each month because they learned in school that penguins give rocks to their partners. The shameless flirting in the back of the roller rink off the coast. The sweet nothings Laguna would whisper on her skin as she came down. The pretty laughs and smiles the two just couldn't seem to get rid of around each other.

It was until now, seeing Laguna stab her own stepbrother 18 times in the heart that Shea realized. This isn't love. And never was.