Part of my story. Please read and give opinions. Thanks.?

I had a dream. Let me explain... I was at a table group. Probably in a science class room (go figure). The desks looked like the ones in Mrs. Prests room. The black desks dark as night. Covered with countless pencil marks, hearts, scribbles, names, indents. We scribbled when we were pissed. We drew gorgeous... show more I had a dream. Let me explain...

I was at a table group. Probably in a science class room (go figure). The desks looked like the ones in Mrs. Prests room. The black desks dark as night. Covered with countless pencil marks, hearts, scribbles, names, indents. We scribbled when we were pissed. We drew gorgeous hearts when happiness grabbed hold of us. We wrote our own names out of boredom. We indented the desk with our anger and writing utencils.
Imagine a desk (two desks actualy, stuck together, for the sake of making a "table group"). Dean is sitting in the seat diagnol from me. Wearing a long sleeve dark gray shirt. The shirt that has a bit of a glimer to it. It looks so great on him. It suits him so well that words can't explain. I believe whenever he wore it...I would melt in my seat and re-form when he spoke to me. He was so beautiful that even the ugliest things turned into masterpieces against his angelic face. Oh Dean Biston.
His hair. Dark brown. Without any hint of chemical products. Natural and so transparent. No dye, no gel, no mousse, no unusual styles, no bangs to cover his eyes...those beautiful eyes.
His skin. A mild milky white. Not too white, a creamy pastel so smooth that you'd wish the guy would get atleast one damn pimple.
His eyes. The eyes that even the Devil himself couldn't refuse adoring. A light brown with swirls of hazel blended with honey. His eyes are a dream. You look into them for a fraction of a second and you're dead. You're in another world. You are ******* dead. Your soul bangs on your throat, wanting to escape your body and lose itself into those heavenly eyes. The eyes that once were as clear as Fiji water. Pure, filled with colors that provoked your mind, I swear, you could have murdered someone just to look into them. You. Would have done. Anything.
In the dream, I was being loud. I was being my stupid-*** self. Trying to make myself look cool, rope peoples attention toward me. Laughing for no reason. Dean peered at me. He stared. His warm hazel eyes so ignorant of the classroom, focused on my stupid face. The face that expanded as my mouth flew open to humor myself.

Dean: "So...Nia makes you laugh a lot."

Me: "What? You know her? How?"

Dean: "She makes you laugh tons", he grins.

Me: Laughs some ******* more and replys, "Nia?"

Dean: Snickers, "You know, sometimes you just need to put a lock on her. Keep her away."

Me: "You were my humor before. Remember? You were the reason for laughter. You were the cause of every laugh. Years back, you were her."

Change in setting: A field with medium length dry grass.

It was afternoon. The sun handing out it's warmth to Earth, getting nothing in return. It gives without recieving.

Dean, wearing that same shirt, sat in the dry grass, his knees to the side. His expression focused off to nowhere in particular. And I...
I held onto his thigh. I'm not sure what texture of pants he was wearing, but I was holding onto him tight. I looked like someone who was drowing in the dead grass. Trying to find something or someone to cling onto. I felt just as dead as the grass around me, seeing Deans presence as a glass of cool water.
There was a fence. The kind of fence that hated being there, it didn't like it at all. The kind of fence that screamed: "Get me the **** out of here, will you?" So bend and torn. It took in the suns heat and sighed.
From a not far distance, I saw Mike (Mike Heel) walking toward us. His eyes squinted, wearing a white T-shirt. Walking by his side was a girl. The girl he told me about over the phone. The girl that he was so confused about. Now, I guess, they were together. Mikes blond hair blended in so easily with the suns heat. Becoming one.
Dean was still looking off to the distance, not complaining one bit of my hands harshly hanging onto him. I sat up. And as I did...
Amy Millan appeared from the corner, only a few meters away. White Marilyn Monroe dress. Hair up in a pony tail that obeyed the winds every command. Her sunglasses covering her eye sockets. She seemed...so emotionless.
I shattered. I set my hands around Deans neck, overlapping my right hand with my left. I placed my useless lips just above his collar bone. Leaving them there, and looking at Mike and his clueless girl. Amy kneeled down. As if she's lost her barette. Her hands clapsing down onto the lifeless weeds. She seemed to have the emotion of a rock.
Dean sat there. Not speaking a word to Mike or to Amy. Seconds passed and Dean turned his upper torso and looked over at Amy and Mike. Mike spoke without patience:

Mike: "Dean. Come on, let's go." His eyes still squinted. I wished they would close for good, and not pay any attention to Dallas and I, and our moment of nothing. A moment that consisted of nothing. Not. A. Thing.
Amy faced Dean. I couldn't tell if she was looking through his eyes or just at his perfect features. Her sunglasses made that a mystery.
Soon, I felt my self saying something.
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