A young girl, sixteen years of age, threw herself into bed and began to sob quietly to herself. The same fiery love that had melted her ice-encased heart now froze it back again. She was worried. She had no reason to be, but she was worried about her first love. She loved him immensely, deeply, boundlessly. She confessed that she dreamed of her lips on his for hours on end, the two of them cuddling in bed and sharing passionate kisses that yelled of vibrant youth and young, sweet love. His downcast look and small crooked smile threw her off guard, crushed her childish schoolgirl-in-love dreams, her suppressed fantasies, her pretty naivety. They did not want the same thing, did not desire the same things. Still, he was her first love and she wanted him to feel the same way about her.
Her tears fell in thick streams onto her pillow as her heart ached and throbbed within walls of arctic ice. She desperately wanted to feel their lips touch, for his tongue to snake over hers, for him to embrace her lovingly. It was silly. These fantasies of hers were silly. No other teenage girl in the right frame of mind would be wanting the bizarre things that she craved. The little girl tried to soothe herself as her feet rubbed themselves against each other. She tried to soothe the ache in her heart. He was perfect, save for this one, insignificant detail. Beneath the covers she rocked herself back and forth. Why did he not want to kiss her in the way she wanted? Was she too passionate, too wild, too thrilling for him? Was her enthusiasm overwhelming, unrealistic, nasty? She thought that he loved to kiss her. Didn’t all men love to kiss their girls? She thought about all the times they had kissed. Had he ever really felt the same way when they were kissing?
Soon there were no more tears left. Her heart beat dully, her feet crossed at the ankles down near the foot of the bed. She forgot about her romantic woes. As she slipped into a deep sleep, she couldn’t remember for the life of her what she had been upset about.