Creative Writing

Butterflies Part 7

I take a sharp intake of breath and look down, blushing furiously. People ‘ooh’ around us and I can’t help but feel his stare burning into the top of my skull. The butterflies start to go crazy, dancing in and out of my rib cage. The game goes on, but I can’t stop thinking about how he called me beautiful. Out of everyone of these perfect girls, he thought I was the prettiest. Or maybe he was joking. Maybe it was a secret joke, an ironic thing that they will all laugh about when I’m gone. Or maybe it was out of pity. Who knows? I get up and slowly walk out of the room, hoping no one will notice.

“Ashley!” I hear, when I’m almost free. “Where are you going?” I look back to see Aubrey, head tilted in confusion. “It’s only 10:30!”

“I have to go.” I mumble, and run out of the room before anyone can say anything else. As I run out of the house to my beat up, 1997 Toyota Corolla, I can’t help but feel something that is against my better judgment. The butterflies fly with hope in their wings, and I, for the first time in a while, smile at the promise of the unknown.


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