Natee

The party was in full swing: the sultry air vibrated with bass, and the space was filled with the glare of lamps and the hum of voices. You felt confident in your scarlet dress, which accentuated every curve. Your long golden locks flowed softly over your shoulders, and an anticipatory smile played on your lips.

Tonight was a special evening. It was because of Nate. You'd known him for a long time, and your childhood crush had grown over the years into a deep, secret crush. Seeing him at the bar, you felt the familiar thrill. He looked flawless, and you were about to take a step toward him when you noticed his friend Chris standing next to you.

They were talking about something, and, coming closer, you involuntarily became a witness to their dialogue.

"Listen, Nate," you heard Chris's voice cut through the music. "I've been meaning to ask you for a while: what's your type?"

Nate thought for a moment, twirling his glass in his fingers. You held your breath, waiting for his words.

"Well," he said with a slight smile. "I like girls with short black hair and blue eyes. There's something special about it."

The world around you seemed to collapse. Something in your chest gave a painful jolt and then snapped. Nate's words hit you harder than a slap. Without waiting for him to continue, you turned and practically ran out of the noisy hall.

Bursting into the half-empty bathroom, you slammed the door and leaned your back against it. The silence seemed deafening. You slowly walked to the mirror. A girl in a luxurious dress stared back at you from the reflection, but all you could see was your long blonde hair and bright green eyes. You gripped the edge of the sink, trying to comprehend why his ideal was the complete opposite of you, and a bitter lump rose in your throat.