(did this for a contest a while back...the host never got back to anyone though ): )
Because hate can be romantic too.
She glared up at the dull, grey sky; her small, round nose wrinkling in annoyance.
He was supposed to be there, with her, over thirty minutes ago.
And she knew, she knew that he was doing this on purpose. He knew just how much she
hated snow, especially the snow that falls on The Academy grounds. It wasn’t white; pure
white like the kind back home. No, this horrid snow that laid under her feet was murky and
tainted. She didn’t want anything to do with it. Who knows what disgusting germs lay on
In the middle of her thoughts, she sneezed, just as he called out her name, “Bonnie!”
She sneered, and her head whipped around to glare at the caller, deep brown eyes narrowing
in anger as the happy fool rapidly approached her tiny form, “Don’t call me that.”
He smiled, and brushed the snow off her short, mousy brown hair, “Sorry Ellie.”
She scoffed, deciding to avoid eye contact with him, for fear of revealing the pink-tinted
apples of her cheeks to him, “Where the hell were you, Jon?”
He laughs, and starts up a story on how he was running around causing trouble with her
brother, Clyde, and she cringes. Not because she’s surprised, but because she’s
reminded of why she hates her name so much. ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ were two of her parents
favourite history figures and she would much prefer to be referred to as her middle name
Oh she had lost her train of thought
looking at his gorgeous clear, blue eyes.
She shook her head and looked down at the ground; she was trying to be mad about the fact
that he didn’t part his hair perfectly in the middle like she’s always telling him to;
completely oblivious to the fact that he had stopped talking a while ago and was now
admiring the way the cold climate made her little nose all red.
It was silent for a moment, a peaceful silence (not like the awkward ones she would have
with Darcy or Carla whenever they had all ran out of things to talk about), and she
shifted her weight back and forth; wondering whether she had taken her medication or not
that morning, or even if it was the right medication…
She cleared her throat, awkwardly looking over to the side where a couple of her
classmates were wandering and prancing about, “So, um, I was thinking that for our
History project, we’d—”
“Bonnie, why do you hate the cold?”
She blinked, more confused than angry that she was just interrupted, “What?”
He smiled, eyes twinkling in what she recognized as mischief, “Ellie, why do you hate
Where on earth was this coming from? He damn well knew why she hated snow. He was there
when her older brother shoved her seven year old self down the hill in the tire sled that
was far too big for her. He was there when she popped out of the snow pile and proceeded
to strangle Clyde in an effort to kill him. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. She
hated the germs that came with the snow, that her grandmother had died in winter, and that
she hated being stranded out in the snow waiting for the biggest idiot on the planet who
asked the stupidest questions on the planet that only an idiot could ask.
She also hated how the idiot always said her name with such pure happiness, and hated
how often she thought about how it might feel to run her fingers through his wispy
hair, and hated the way he smiled cutely and thanked her whenever she
lovingly fixed his tie. The way he messily crossed his ‘t’s and dotted his
‘i’s drove her mad, and she despised how he always considered her and her obsession
with organization along with the fact that his desk was always messy and never clean,
and she loathed how perfect her first name would sound together with his last name
She snapped out of it, having been lost in thought and not thinking about how soft
his skin looked or how it would feel against hers. No, not at all.
She moved to open her mouth, attempting to avoid the question and start up again about
their project, but nothing came out but her hazy, warm, minty breath. So instead, she
shrugged rather dumbly and avoided looking him in the eye; much preferring to look down at
her feet to listen to the snow crunch under her weight.
He smiled for possibly the hundredth time that day when she didn’t answer, and grabbed
her mitten covered hand, “Here,”
She was too stunned by how warm his hand was to protest.
He quickly, but softly, pulled off her dark, forest green woolen mitten. And she recoiled
a bit, in reaction to the harsh chill her hand got when it met the cold air. But only a
little, because she soon felt the warmth of his soft hand in hers, and the goose bumps
were laid to rest. Then she stood still; waiting for something to happen.
She then felt it; a large, insignificant little snowflake landed on her finger. It was
pretty, and the filigree patterns reminded her of the cute little dollies her grandmother
used to knit for her mother. But in the heat of both their hands, it melted away to a tiny
puddle of water.
And that’s when she realized that she was smiling, and realized how close she was to
him. His chin gently resting on her head, their legs huddled together, their forms leaning
into each other so that there was no space between them; her hand in his.
And she felt so warm, and so very happy, and so very much alive, and oh so loved, and not
And she was so sorry rather happy to admit just how perfectly well they