There is a boy, and he steps into his house. It's an apartment I think. There's white stucco on the walls. It's the bottom floor, his door around the corner from the others so the concrete makes an 'L.'

For some reason I have his bike, and as he steps into his apartment I come around the corner with it. I lay it next to his on the ground in front of his door. His is black, mine is the same only it's white. I drop it by the door and run around the corner. For some reason I know he's coming and I don't want to see him. I watch the ground from my spot and see his shadow appear as he opens the door.

My heart pounds because I know it's him. I can feel it and I close my eyes momentarily. Finally I cannot stand it and I step back around the corner and into his vision. He is still stepping out of the doorway and I realize that in reality I didn't hesitate at all, but gave in immediately. He glances up at me with a smirk and he closes the door behind himself and I lean against the pillar marking the corner for support. My heart is fluttering so much that I think I might take flight.

"Hey," I think I've found my voice deep down somewhere, but it comes out all airy and romance-like.

There's two doors in the wall infront of me and he glances at me again as he opens one. He puts his foot through the doorway and leans in but never fully enters the room. The other door open's and a boy is standing there, a washer and dryer behind him. I somehow know the boy is a friend of his and quickly pay him no attention.

"I didn't want you to worry about another bike," I say.

I don't have any idea what I'm talking about, but for some reason it makes sense.

"What?" the boy steps back out of the room and closes the door.

His friend closes the door to the laundry room, leaving us alone again. But I don't care, I don't even notice. I'm busy focusing on the boy taking two quick catlike steps over the bikes to stand next to me. He wore an oversized white sweatshirt, baggy blue jeans and gray VANS tennis shoes. The look was typical of kids our age, seventeen, eighteen, but never did I think I'd find it attractive. He was taller than me, but not so tall that I felt we were distant. I could still look at him, admire him. I'm pretty sure that for however long I've known him I've spent most of my time staring at him, as I am now. He has blue eyes, I think, and brown hair. It's short but long enough to tousle. There are light freckles around his nose and his skin is clear as if he visits his dermatologist regularly, treated to perfection.

I feel like I've been floating around in my own little world for hours, but once again it's only been a half a second, and I remember that he asked me a question. I stammer and hope he didn't notice my hesitation.

"I-I said I didn't want you to worry about another bike."

He puts his arm out infront of me so I'm locked between him and the wall. I put my hand on his arm instinctively. I distinctly remember the way his arm felt through that white sweatshirt. He was warm and strong. I instantly felt safe and protected but at the same time over powered but not threatened. Like when someone's forcing you or pressuring you to do something you don't want to but inside you know you really want to and your glad they're making you because then you get to do it without anyone knowing you wanted to.

I was instantly in love or something like it.

"Oh," he smiles at me and my knees get shaky.

He's looking at me and I'm looking at him, full on staring. My eyes are focused in on his lips. they're full, thick, soft and pink. Slightly parted and calling me.

I'm staring at him wanting to say, "My God you have the most amazing lips," but all I can do is stare and stare. I see his head start to descend towards me and I'm being drawn to him and I think, "Oh my God I'm going to kiss him. He's going to kiss me." And just before we touched, just mere millimeters apart, he jumps back and moves to stand directly in front of me.

"Smile," he tells me.

My head spins around and I'm sure I look at him like he's crazy for a moment before I catch myself.

"Huh?" I'm not even listening.

His lips are still my focus.

"Smile for me. I love your-."

And then the alarm clock goes off, 6:45 am and I'm awakened from my fantasy. I cursed the stupid black box as I get up to turn it off, and then stumble back to bed, turning on the news along the way in hopes that I don't go back to sleep. Figures that the one time I have a good dream I have to wake-up just when it gets good. I pray that my mind can take me back to the place where I'm half-asleep and my imagination gives me back the boy that I find so beautiful.

I image that he told me he loved my smiled before putting his white sweatshirt covered arms around me and kissing me senseless. I images that his mouth touched me so pain scathingly slowly before his luscious lips devoured mine. I image that he kissed me in a way that ignited a passionate fire deep within me and made me yearn to be touched and made him yearn to touch me.

But I'll never be positive. I'll never know for sure. It was only a dream.