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 you are given one hour and thirty minutes to write an essay about this : love.

and so, here you are, cheek on hand, eyes on blank paper with nothing but the inquiry and empty lines, thinking, pondering, wondering and asking- what is love? somehow you regret failing literature because let's be real, you, boy with detonated fireworks flowing in his veins, are not love, nor the poet who'd write about love. you are a hard, strong thing : an obelisk of destruction, not a church of harmony. you curse whoever created literature and all the poets on the land. you curse shakespeare. you curse lang leav. you curse all the authors you can think of.

one hour and twenty-two minutes. shit.

you think hard and fast about what love could be. you think of lovers sitting underneath sycamore trees, but those were the scenes in movies you'd often laugh at, or perhaps doze off at, for never have you ever knew what it was like to hear a laugh that's worth a garden of poppies. perhaps love was iridescent lights dancing as lips meet, but then again, your lips were a virgin and those lights always made your head spin. no,no,no, maybe love was a mother's kiss but you've always pushed her away anyway, so no, maybe love was- no, no, love can't be sunday smiles and ice cream sandwiches shared when dusk has ended. love was, love is, love will-

you nearly break the pencil in your hand. love was a conundrum. love was a riddle, a mystery, all hidden inside the womb of an enigma.

forty-seven minutes. god fucking dammit. god fucking dammit.

you glance outside the window because maybe love would be fleeting in the air as clouds race and colors dance. you see trees and the trees were green. love was green.

love was ... green.

love was green bushes all scattered. no, no roses, no daffodils, just green, green, green. love was a cup of green tea you'd drink in the morning, love was the grass you'd lay in when they're laden with dew, love was the color illuminated when fireflies waltz on meadows. and fireflies looked like stars and stars formed constellations- constellations. 

love's constellations because you can only pinpoint and connect stars together to get a figure and you think maybe love would work that way. you'd connect this, bit of childishness, to the small ounce of clumsiness, to the small ounce of laughter that'll wake a blanket of flowers, to the overflowing water of altruism. 

altruism... yes. love was altruism. love was flowing altruism, because who cares if you'd get your hands bloody and bruised. who cares if you'd get your teeth broken and plucked. what matters was their hand was still soft to hold and their teeth would still be complete so you'd see the smile that'll bring shame to all those beautiful meadows. the smile you'd draw on constellations and the world's going to forget the garnish sun despite this constellation's beauty. 

no. that's too long. shorten it. summarize it.

twenty minutes. fuck, fuck, you haven't even written anything yet!

pencil's grabbed, all steady and still now,

" Love was, " you begin to write, " Love is... "

" ...Deku. "

and soon your red-maroon eyes meet the words you wrote and your face soon matches your eyes.