Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Valentines memories.

As I sit at my ink-stained desk, staring at my pen nib as it sketches out the days work, I feel someone staring at me. It's him.

"Do you know what day it is?" he asks with excitement in his voice.

"Thursday" I simply reply.

"Okay, if you're sure about that" he laughs.

Then he slips a red envelope onto the corner of the desk. I simply look at him, smile politely and return to my work as he walks away.
It's left there all day. I never open them at school. I never plan to open them at all, but curiosity always wins. So, at the end of the day, I slip the envelope, now with grubby edges, into my bag whist no one's watching and run towards the door and down the street. I don't slow until i've reached my bedroom. I rumage around my bag, contains spilling to the floor, in search of it. When I find it, I just stare.
I stare for what seems like hours, but I know must only be minutes. Then, finally, I tear into the paper.

He's gone all out this year.
It started as a scrunched up piece of pink paper with a sribbled heart and a couple of barely ledgable words, but sat in front of me now was the most beautiful handmade card with velvet hearts and ribbon framing the edges.
I place the spotless card on top of my Care Bear bedspread, faded with the years, for fear of dirtying it. Slowly I turn the elaborate cover and gaze upon the red letters. His handwriting appears to dance around the page, no longer the squiggle of a boy, but the script of a man. I take every letter in, one-by-one, and then, there it is. He upholds his question mark, because, for him, it'll always be a little secret.

After a while I close the card and scoop it up from the duvet. I rush over to my set of drawers and open up the bottom one. As I lift my text books I see a sparkle of past memories. I slide the newest between them and close the drawer again.
I turn away and smile to myself.
He'll never know how I truely feel.

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