Flash Fiction, a short story written in 100 words or less.
We are holding hands, both clammy and awkward but neither willing to let go.
Young love is as much about stubbornness as it is about infatuation. Who will let go first? It is a game of adolescent chicken.
I lick my lips, grimacing at their chapped surface. Putting on chap-stick seems too premediated, too expectant, but I worry about their roughness.
I would have to let go of your hand to find the chap-stick.
A slight breeze ruffles your hair. Butterflies jump in my stomach, nervous and delighted and sick all at the same time.
I love being in love.