Not an inkling of warmth could be felt in the wide corridor of Licamore Academy in the early days of December. There was no Christmas tree to fill the halls with love and comfort, but it was not as if any of expected a friendly atmosphere; that was just, simply, the way it had always been at Licamore: dull, lifeless, unchanging.

I longed for warmth and any sort of relief from the cold, never-ending days of vigorous work and worthless exams. I was always a high achieving student, never dawdling with the male species, like many of my greedy peers. But alas, who could blame them? The longing cry for affection was so loud in the academy that most would just settle for the unattractive, mediocre boys with stuck-up, rude behavior and who objectified girls like it was their job.

I was the only girl who wore pants and liked to play sports. On occasions, though, I loved to wear satin dresses and corsets (solely for my enjoyment, and never to impress anybody). Being an orphan since birth, I had nobody to impress with my achievements. So, having strict teachers who only cared about rules and regulations, I stopped trying to impress them and allowed my grades to drop for simple amusement. Licamore Academy was nothing more than monotonous repetition boxed into a school with no escape…until we received a new student. Most who came to the sickening place came due to circumstances like me, but this new boy – he came on his own will.

I found this absurd: who in his right mind would want to come to Licamore, with mold on its windows, outdated rules and policies, and, not to mention, abhorrent food that looks like human remains? I felt this immediate dislike for the boy, for that reason, but he was hard to hate. He was extremely attractive (and trust me, my definition of attractive lowered each year I attended Licamore). He had beautiful, blond hair and pale skin that reminded me of the moon during evening classes and of the sun during the early hours of the day. His eyes were a dark green, and his lips looked so soft. I could not tear my eyes away from his chiseled jaw. I was mesmerized by the way he dressed: clumsily, yet so put-together.

I felt something I had never felt before; it was very evident, as my cheeks would flush whenever I saw him, or I would stumble and say something stupid. Despite all that, there was no way he could never like me back. I have tan skin, which came from part of my heritage, and a jungle of brown hair set a little below my shoulders. I was also taller than most boys in the academy, being five feet, nine inches, but he was about five foot eleven.

One night, I woke up at an ungodly hour after having a recurring dream about my parents. To recollect myself after these visions, I usually sat by the window in my dormitory that overlooked the forest. As I was about to sit, however, I noticed a tall figure walking toward the forest. Going out past curfew was forbidden; one would receive harsh punishment if he did, yet something inside of me told me to go and follow the figure. So I did. 

The grass smelled of sandalwood, and the air was refreshing. The figure’s light hair reflected in the moonlight; it was headed toward the forest. I ran after it, trying not to call out to it until I got close enough. I realized it was the new boy.

“Hey, what are you doing out here past curfew?” I spoke quietly but firmly.

“I have a name, you know,” he laughed. His voice gave  me goosebumps. “It’s John. Pretty standard, I know, and I expect yours to be something like Marianne?” 

The way he said my name was graceful, and made my body go rigid. I suddenly realized how close his face was to mine. I stepped back, “Call me Mary; nobody ever calls me Marianne,” I said as he pulled me closer.

If any other male touched me like he did, putting both their arms around me, I would have probably punched him in the face. “Why would you come here, out of all places to go, and at this hour of the night?” I inquired. 

He was still holding onto me; wind was blowing through his hair, making him look even more beautiful. I tried to restrain myself. “For you, of course,” he spoke into my ear, and my arms flooded with goosebumps. It was then that I also noticed his American accent, the same as mine. So, we were the only two Americans at Licamore.

“Who on earth would come for a person like–” the rest of my sentence was left unfinished as his lips met mine. In all eighteen years of existence, I had never felt so euphoric and confused at the same time. He smelled of lemon and cloves, which were ingrained in my brain for quite some time after.

“Now let’s go. Away, just the two of us,” he said. And he took my arm, and we ran deeper into the forest. Forgetting every bad memory of the life I once had at the cold, dark Licamore, I ran. Blinded by love, I ran…