Earlier this morning, I woke up with a story in my head. While brushing my teeth, I realized I've written a draft with a similar storyline and it's got to be around here somewhere. So I decided to look through my old notebooks --- but this isn't an easy task. I have got notebooks everywhere. And I can't stop buying them either. So what was supposed to be a 10-minute search turned into an hour of sifting through the pages of my hyperactive imagination.
Finally, I found the lines I was looking for. In my dream, a blondish gboy was talking to an older girl --- his first crush and he was bumbling through the scene. In my notebook, he has a name and his problem was he was being initiated into the first pangs of puppy love:
Roiben's first taste of irrefutable pain came as he watched a dark lock of hair fall across Sarah Asher's face. Pain in how it obstructs his view of her dark eyes. Pain in how this simple flaw emphasizes the otherworldliness of her pale face. He wanted to reach out, brush it off her face, tuck it behind her seashell ears, and run his thumb across her ripening cheeks. The need was so overwhelming that it was like falling through thin ice, like hitting your head on something sharp and deadly, or standing in the way of a runaway train. His limbs were not responding to his brain; his heart was not his. His pain was made more excruciating in the knowledge that he can only breathe once the feel of her skin liberates the air from his lungs. He suffocates slowly because he can not touch her. Could not. May not. Roiben realized then that this is the first of a thousand small deaths and the last of his childhood dreams.