Home school?

Home school?

Okay, maybe she’s five years older or eight but it doesn’t matter. Somehow, in this derailed continent with a low percentage of people with common sense, I expected them to see that I loved her.
She’s beautiful and the sight of her sparks something in my soul. I may only be fourteen but somehow, unconsciously, she taught me how to love. A few home lessons, a star-wrapped chuckle within every five minutes of our lecture, and handwriting like that of a goddess. My father doesn’t happen to be a fan of home lessons but whose attention won’t be captured by her? I see the way he stares at her and lubricates his lower lip at her sight. He’s too old for that.
After explaining to my homeboys how I feel about her and they burst into laughter, I am shy to tell her how I feel about her. Her Instagram page looks nice and she dresses way differently than when she comes to help me with my arithmetic. I wish she could take me in biology too because I see her on social media and I can’t explain the blood that rushes downwards in me.
… but it’s way more than that. There’s chemistry. I can feel it. All it takes is for me to walk up to this magnificent twenty-year-old work of art and explain the waves I feel and how my heart flutters when she chuckles and her eyes shut for a second. Her fingers give me the feeling of peace of mind. Age is a number. Love can fill the gap. What harm can six years do?
When she finally loves me and we travel the world together, we can find a through to discuss those biological issues. She may be able to help me literally. It’s the power of love.

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