She wore her favorite shirt, an olive green short sleeve with thin white stripes every three inches or so, with small clear buttons sewn on for decoration. The olive complimented her pale completion and her light brown hair. Her murky green eyes glimmered in the sunlight and her hair hung right above her shoulders in messy, windblown locks.
She sat on his desk with carefree poise, laughing at his jokes and shooting her own. He sat in his chair, leaning back slightly to see her. His Asian hair was short and he was tall, wearing a light blue shirt and probably his favorite pair of shorts. Knee high, white with a brown and blue plaid pattern.
The bell rings and I pull my phone out of my pocket, brushing my dark ruby locks out of my face and fighting with the inbox icon on the stubborn little touch screen. Giving up, I put it on top of my books in my open bag and bounced down the stairs and out the door.
The humidity creeps up my neck and threatens to curl my flat ironed hair. She follows me and her eyes go soft. She tells me how she does like him after all, and I give her a hug and tell her it's alright.
She says that she's crazy for it, but I can't help but smile at her shyness about it. When I tell her that he likes her too, the smile on her face lit up the world, but she snapped back to reality within a second and she told me he didn't.
But he does notice her, and she refuses to realize that. But she's wrong. Because they're perfect.