1989 - The Narratives - Wildest Dreams

She painted with the colours she felt, rather than those that had been. Red, matte lips instead of bubble gum pink gloss; doll-like, rosy cheeks in place of her awkward blush; a burnt orange and warm gold sunset to replace the breezy air, the cloud-covered sky. She daubed the beach with painstaking detail, as if one could pick out each individual grain of sand. 

She did it this way not because she was a liar, but because she was a romantic. The true memories would be her most precious, and she did not want to share them - they were the only things that could be truly hers. She replaced a few key details so that when she did pour out her heartache, her friends could sense just enough, but not enough to completely expose her. 

It was a thrill, she couldn't deny it. The fair had been the start of it all. Her friends had left early to go to a party, but as she still kicking back antibiotics from an infection two weeks past, she didn't think alcohol was the best idea. So, she stayed, an invisible stranger amongst the bright lights, squealing children, and candy floss. 

And then he showed up, the brooding, handsome hero. The fact that he was staring at her like Noah looking at Allie Hamilton did not help, but it was everything. One conversation was all it took for her to be swept away. He was honest, which she did not expect, that he was only here for the summer and couldn't make promises beyond that. His honesty was enough, almost worth more than his affection. And so, for five, dreamlike weeks, they were together, a careful distance by day, completely entangled at night. 

And when it came time for him to leave, she felt okay. Not great, and she was sure the heartache would kill later on, but she'd had a time of complete adoration and being made to feel like it was just her. 

When she gave him the painting, he accepted. It helped - she wasn't sure if he would. 

"I'll remember you," he said. "In my wildest dreams, I'll remember you."