**(“The Dreams Preserved For The Young Ones,” Rina Kabsita)**

When I was little, I held my hand up to the sky as if something important was there, disappointed whenever I had yet another unsuccessful attempt; and I manipulated myself into believing if I just took the next step and went on my tippy toes, I would reach the “floating white cotton candy.”

I never had good balance because I never put in the time to.

When I was little, my eyes always stared at the water, waiting for the day that a mermaid would come emerge from the darkest depths of the sea from their 500 year extinction (which was what I believed at the time), and I would come to drink a potion to be a half mermaid, like my idol (at the time), Ariel.

I never had any friends because of my high expectations.

When I was little, I wanted to grow wings and grew into a Tinkerbell phase. Every little thing, how her wings twitched, every emotion on the screen, I became obsessed with her. In a way, she was my first fictional crush.

I never got to date anyone because my parents didn’t approve.

Slowly but surely, the truth slowly started to seep beneath my veins; nobody ever noticed. I was just the stand-in girl for little tasks that didn’t matter to many but the school, the world would fall apart if nobody did them. I was the most important person in the school, and nobody else would wonder if their smile was crooked when they looked at me or if my hair was too frizzy to get their attention.

That’s right. Recently, I fell in love with two people of opposite genders right when their faces met the peripheral vision of my eyes. Something about them, they’re… unique, special, not so afraid to tackle who they are and what they can do. I once tried to use one of the things they said on someone else, and they just said “sure” and walked off. That duo… when they said it, the targets’ eyes gleamed with joy and happily said yes.

The obsessions only started to get worse until I found myself learning realism just for me to imagine what my room would be like in a week; pictures of them I stored in my photos app all over the walls, the cherry-scented perfume they shared all over the room, everything they did, I would do now. It wasn’t an option. I needed an identity, a solid one, now that there were people I wanted to attract.

Just yesterday, I sketched a full body of one of them without any references; at least, not of them. I knew of every birthmark, every freckle and mole on their bodies, whether they wanted me to or not. But it made me feel solid. An identity. Something I could be if I tried.

Then it hit me. It wasn’t an identity…

It was an obsession. A deadly combination of yearning for human interaction and falling for people way out of my league… but I was in too deep now. I would still keep the cherry perfume in my backpack just in case of the rare chance someone comes and wants to talk to me. And by someone…

Wesyn and Kinja.

Wesyn Siamolpu, age 14, grade eight. Same age and grade as me. He goes by masculine pronouns, feels awkward with any conversation-like interaction with his parents, so much so they found ways to communicate without any form of paper, pen or voice. And as a child, he had an irrational fear of knives, but not because it can chop stuff, because he was afraid of some monster taking one and cutting open the clouds, starting a bunch of rain. His favorite color is deep baby blue, his favorite person is Kinja, although I only have a three days’ worth of collections, so I have no idea whether or not they’re only best friends or something way deeper.

Kinja Ruakiwao, age 15, grade eight. Same grade as me, and she sits behind me, so it’s not too long before she might ask for a pencil from me or something and have the worthiness to stare at her face. She goes by feminine and gender neutral pronouns, but I prefer to use feminine so I don’t get confused what “they” refers to. A strange thing she does is constantly move her legs from crossed back to a normal sitting position, like it’s an exercise— she could possibly have restless leg syndrome. She also can’t stand when people have incorrect pronounciation and/or writing because as I quote, she says, “You’ve been breathing this country’s language for fifteen years now and STILL use runoff sentences? Shame.” Because of her, my handwriting and grammar became perfect. I’m ready to amaze them in any way possible.

As you can see, I do my thorough research on my subjects, and in the middle of class, I spot myself staring at her too long again! I’m such a failure, I told myself, trying to hold back the tears I have endless reasons to let out. But that would be shameful, hoping for comfort because of a little emotion. But as my mind went on and I still stared at her, my mind immediately went, “She’s staring right back.”

Now, we’re locked eyes, with her smiling and I then felt like I was melting because of her beautiful eyes. Amber eyes. She really looks like a phoenix reincarnated into a human after a thousand lives, because only one so wise would know how to bless one’s face with such beauty…

A firm hand grabs mine, and I realized I was slowly moving my hand to try and caress her face, whatever my hand was doing on its own. Then she said, “At least _try_ to focus on the lesson instead of looking at me kinda creepily, okay? I don’t mind the staring, but I don’t wanna be blamed for a perfect potential being doomed because she wanted to stare at flawless beauty. Now, if you want this that badly…”

She gently put my hand on hers.

“Then you better work for it, okay? So get working!”

That afternoon, I couldn’t have one thought without an intermission of studying. It was annoying, like an ad that always popped up no matter what ad blocker you used, but then her face came up, and her hand on mine…

And then another 10 minutes of studying, literally red-headed. It was the perfect method to keep me going. As I drifted off that night, there was one thought in my mind…

_Her hand was so soft… I wonder what the rest is like._

I don’t believe it.

An identity.

_An identity._