The guy sitting in front of me had that dirty blonde hair that was messy and tousled. He had those piercing hazel eyes that could stop time and entrance you.

"I didn't know you liked to write," I say after his proclamation of love for writing and poetry. "I like writing, too." He props his elbows up on the table. His expression was kind, and he looked like he wanted hear my version of a proclamation of love.

The restaurant they were at, Ivy Vines, was a rather fancy restaurant, but with a more edgy feel to it. It had sleek chairs, delicious food, and lights strung everywhere. Darin, the date, said it was really good a few days ago.

We matched on a dating app, and we had been talking for hours, non-stop.

"Really?" He raises in eyebrow. "What kind of writing do you do?"

"Fiction. Sometimes romance. Kind of along those lines," I reply.

Darin smiles, his lips turning almost pinker. "Well," he says. "Describe your writing for me." My mouth presses into a line. Brows knit. "Please? For me?"

I laughed. "Okay, okay." It took a few moments to figure out what to say, but after I opened my mouth, the words rolled off my tongue. "My writing is almost like a dream, and a nightmare. I write a lot about mental health, because it was one of my close friends real life nightmares. And, it's important for people to learn about.

"Mental health is something very real. Something that a lot of people experience at one point in their life. It's important for others to know how people feel, but sometimes it can comfort those struggling to hear something that they relate to, that they understand.

"I write romances that I would want, based on people who have been nice to me in the past. Once upon a time, there was this boy. He meant a lot to me, but he abandoned me and never spoke to me again. When I write about love and all the romances, I think about him, just how much I loved him, and just how much I hurt after him.

"The fiction is just my personal choice. I love reading YA fiction, and it's really fun to world and character build. I pull ideas from my favorite books, and intertwine and twist them until they become something new, something for me. Something I can write about.

"All it takes it just one spark, and I can write for a long time. It's hard to keep that flame alive, but if you nurture it, an entire book can come out from the flames. And if it does die, a better version can come from the ashes.

"Writing can sometimes seem like an escape, but also as a way to communicate and reach others who are feeling, living, dreaming just like me."

There was once a girl, a delicate little thing with brilliant eyes and soft hair. Lydia Balkman, part of the most beautiful, prestigious clan, was the most beautiful girl in all the lands. Her entire clan was known for their light blue eyes and kindness. Every boy fantasized and adored over her.

Prince Theodore, perhaps the most charming prince the land has seen, had seen Lydia on his tower. He spotted her from hundreds of feet away, and was entranced by her beauty. This prince was always handsome, with dark curls and a great sense of humor. Every girl had eyes on him.

So when he declared his love for Lydia, everyone was livid. The boys were upset that their beloved prince stole Lydia from everyone else. All the girls were angry and jealous the Lydia got the prince and they didn't.

The two got married a few months later, which enraged Ophelia Andres like no other. She was one of the ugliest the land had, which made her very self-conscious. She, like all other girls, was in love with Prince Theodore, and was extremely jealous of Lydia. Something no one knew about her was that she had witch ancestry. With all the anger fueled up within her, she stormed to the palace courtyard on the day of the wedding.

She screamed in disgust at Lydia's dress. "On this very day, that Balkman clan won't be celebrating, no, but watching us with jealousy. They will know how we feel, being ugly and shamed with their beauty. They will feel how we feel, longing to be just like them! Let them watch us with jealousy!"

Ophelia, eyes flashing in anger, waved her arms around, bright lights blinding everyone. It was a few minutes before the lights vanished. Ophelia looked up and smiled. The sky was the very color of her eyes. Lydia's eyes.

Tristan hated coming home. When he came home, he had to face his parents, with their unmeetable high expectations, and their yells. He was the youngest of three, and he felt the full brunt of his parents' anger, mainly his father’s.

The only thing that kept him alive was Lily. It was horrible not talking to her, but Aaron, his best friend, said it was for the better. She gave him a necklace – charm is a better word – that he always kept in his pocket and clutched when he was in need of someone. There was a fat, one inch star on it that was as pale as the moon. It hung from a brown, leather string.

He loved Lily with all his heart, but never managed to talk to her. Either, Aaron purposely avoided her, or she tensed and went the other direction. If only she knew that she saved his life. That small, stupid charm he gave her when they were ten, saved him. It was childish, but he still clutched it every night and morning, every time his father yelled at him for doing something.

Sighing, he toyed with it as he made his way home. A large, oak tree protected it, and the walls were a bleak gray with an intricate pattern of tiles on the roof. Tristan went in, and rolled his eyes as he saw his older sister’s expression. His older brother, Matthew, was off in college, but his sister, Michelle, was there, and she was two years younger than him. Michelle had a forced smile on her face.

“You should just go to your room,” She told him gently. Tristan saw her rubbing her side.

“What did he do?” Tristan asked. Michelle shook her head, her dark hair flowing out in dark waves. All three of them got their father’s hair, a dark color. He had straight hair, while his mother had curly hair. Tristan inherited his mother’s curls. His curls went into his eyes.

Tristan sighed and went up to his room as silently as he could. He slugged his backpack off his shoulders and reached for the door. He froze when he heard footsteps, his father’s, stomping downstairs. “Mikayla!” He yelled

“Michelle,” Tristan’s sister replied in a quiet voice. Panic rose through him, but he decided to close the door. He heard her scream a few minutes later.