This is NOT some angsty teen romance.
This isn’t some story of how I found the love of my life at only sixteen and *sigh* I don’t know what I would do if I wasn’t living in a fairytale.

My life is NOT a fairytale.
It’s hard when you’re gay.
Yeah. I said it. I’m gay. I might also want to add I’m female. When I’m fighting for acceptance, I’m up against homophobia and sexism, catty girls and creepy guys.
But enough about my hardships. It’s her I want to talk about.

Yes, the her that makes this a romance.
The first thing anyone notices about her is her hair. It’s wild, like the jungle cat inside her. Everyone says it’s the color that makes her hair wild but the bright red color is the least of it. It curls and it twists, and then it’s strait but wait just when you thought it was calm it starts waving. This goes on and on until it is forced to stop at her waist.
She’s the only person I’ve met whose paler than I am. No matter how much time she spends in the sun, her skin stays perfectly porcelain. She calls it a flaw. I call it perfection.
Her eyes are hazel, the exact color of caramel. Caramel is a guilty pleasure of mine. I love to eat it but I hate the number of calories in it. Her eyes, though, satisfy that craving for caramel, in just one second.
She has a smile that I’d trade the world to see. It’s bright and full and it carries all of the sunshine and goodness in the world in it.

It’s been 3 weeks, 4 days and 7 hours since I saw that smile.

We were walking back from a date to meet our parents. We were holding hands walking through the park.
We were holding hands skipping through the park for God’s sake!
Then they came.

The police say we were the victims of a hate crime.

Her hair sits on the hospital bed, limp, as tame as can be.
She looks unhealthy pale.
Her mouth doesn’t smile anymore.
Her eyes never open.
The machines bleep and bloop.
And I sit

…Waiting…