William Whitlock is unable to come to the phone at this time due to unforeseen circumstances.

Don't bother leaving a message.

It took everything in Will's power to get out of bed and go to school.

He didn't bother looking in the mirror. He knew his eyes were puffy and red from crying the night before. He knew that his mouth was stuck in a crescent moon frown that refused to be altered. He also knew that he had misplaced his glasses and was forced to declare war against the contacts he only used in desperate situations such as this.

Alice knew what had happened right when Will walked in the door the previous evening. Rivers had formed where his tears had fallen on his drive home. He was desperately clinging onto the marigolds that had suffocated in his palm. Alice took it upon herself to give him a silent yet understanding embrace—something that was somewhat out of the norm in their sibling dynamic, unless it was orchestrated by their mother or born out of silliness.

The drive to school was silent and gray. The sky seemed to be grieving alongside the separated young lovers as it released its floodgates.

After arriving at school, Alice set a gentle hand on Will's shoulder. He glanced at her.

"Hey," Alice began, "you don't have to do this, you know." She urged, giving him a sympathetic look. "You can go home, right now. Mom can pick me up after school lets out."
   
Will simply shook his head, turning off the car. He glanced down at his umbrella, briefly thinking about grabbing it, but he decided against it. "'When God closes a door, another one opens.'"

Will grabbed his things and shut the door behind him.

Alice watched him walk away, her heart sinking down like the sun behind a mountain.

Unfortunately for Will, he'd forgotten all about the looming presentation he'd have to partake in until it was too late.

As Will entered Creative Writing, his spirits sank lower than a casket buried six feet under. Mrs. Boho had her popsicle sticks at the ready, each of them displaying a student's name in bold, black Sharpie.

Will had to escape; he imagined himself jumping out the window next to his seat or hiding out in the boys' bathroom until the end of class, among other things. Despite already knowing that he didn't have a backup poem prepared, Will desperately rifled through his pocket notebook, trying to find any poem that wasn't soul-crushingly embarrassing that also magically happened to be the correct length.

Shockingly, he found none that fit those very specific requirements.

He only hoped Mrs. Boho may not even pull his name today; that they'd have to extend the presentations to Monday, and Will could piece together a new poem over the weekend that wouldn't be as heartbreaking to read. The only thing he imagined was more embarrassing than sharing his work was breaking down in front of his peers.

Luckily, Will was able to relax for a moment as he watched some of his other classmates get chosen before him. He was unable to focus on the poems being presented as he continued trying to find a replacement poem. He couldn't admit defeat.

But he'd be forced to shortly.

Will's classmates began snapping after another student finished presenting their poem. Will snapped out of his trance, joining them just before it died down to nothing.

"Thank you, Ophelia. I could perfectly envision the autumn day you described." Mrs. Boho smiled.

"Thanks, Mrs. Boho." Ophelia replied as she made her way back to her seat.

Mrs. Boho grabbed another popsicle stick without looking. She looked down at it briefly before smirking in Will's direction. His heart pounded out of his chest as Mrs. Boho announced his name.

Will reluctantly grabbed his poem about Indie with his shaking hands. His brain was anything but silent as he made his way up to the podium. He couldn't bear to look upon the judgmental audience that sat before him; he already knew that all eyes were on him, what was the point in solidifying that fact?

"Whenever you're ready, Will," Mrs. Boho coaxed gently.

Will set his poem down before him. He tried reading it over in his head, but his eyes blurred all the words together. His face flushed as he thought about how different his life could've been if he'd read his poetry to Indie sooner; if he'd never picked those stupid marigolds. He felt as though he would deliberately betray Indie if he didn't read the poem to her first, and the fact that he couldn't change that—unless he wanted a grade reduction—made his stomach turn.

Mrs. Boho noticed small tears begin to form in Will's eyes. She stood up from her desk and approached him, standing in front of the podium and keeping her tone quiet.

"Will, is everything alright?" She whispered.

Will let the tears flow down his face as his hands shook before him. "I can't do this," he admitted, his voice breaking. "I don't think I can."

Mrs. Boho sighed. "Take a deep breath," she urged. Will did as she said, wiping his tears off his face with his sleeve. "Don't let whatever you're battling against win, Will."

Will nodded, trying to slow the tears down, but they refused. He thought back to Alice's reaction to his poem. He remembered all the times that Mrs. Boho had helped him through struggles. He knew he needed to let go and push through, because, even if he couldn't fully relate to his art anymore, it was still beautiful.

"Ok." Will nodded.

Mrs. Boho gave a thumbs up. "You're gonna be great, kid." She told him, making her way back toward her seat.

Will stared down at his paper through his tear-stained eyes. He tried to forget what his poem was truly about, how many pairs of eyes were watching his every move, how badly he just wanted to shrink to the size of a raisin. He took all the things that had gone wrong—how his insides burned with anger and sadness, the nerves he felt from being in front of people he felt were better than him—and turned it into focus.

"'Starstruck,'" Will managed to squeak out. He let out another sniffle. A kid in the back of the class coughed. They've grown tired of you, a tiny voice inside him said. They don't believe in you.

It doesn't matter what they think, Will thought to himself, taking another deep breath.

"'Her golden hair,

Her longing stare,

The way she views the world;

Stars above,

I'm dreaming of

The way she says my name.

Dancing in the rain,

Humming old refrains,

Movie theater popcorn,

Homesick and reborn,

For the one that I...'"

Will paused as a single tear slipped from his eye. He tried to find the strength to continue.

"'...the one that I adore.

Each longing sunset,

Each waking dream,

Cannot compare

To the one that I see.

Darling, I'm starstruck

To the highest degree;

Smitten, ravished, captivated

And you're at fault, you see.

You're to blame for my everlasting smile,

My overabundant joy.

You are the sun and the moon and Saturn,

Except you bypass their beauty by a hundredfold.'"

Will glanced up for a moment. Everyone faded away in his mind. He imagined that Indie was the only one listening to him, sitting and smiling at him from the front row, as if everything was right between them again.

"'Promise me, my sunshine,

That you'll never leave my side,

For I'd sooner die

Than see my flower pass me by.'"

Will let out an exasperated sigh. He didn't even notice when his peers began snapping for him, including Mrs. Boho. He felt as though he'd blacked out through his entire presentation and that he was only now waking up.

Before Will went back to his seat, Mrs. Boho looked up at him. Will wasn't expecting to see her dabbing tears from her eyes with a patterned handkerchief.

"Will... That was incredible."

There was that word again.

"Thanks," Will replied. He felt accomplished, yet was still sick to his stomach. Sure, he'd gotten through the assignment, but at what cost? Indie would never be able to be the first person to hear Will share his poetry. He hadn't been able to uphold his end of the promise.

"You are a wonderful poet." Mrs. Boho added.

Will let the compliment sink into his soul as he smiled. "Thank you so much," he basically whispered. He handed his poem off to Mrs. Boho to be graded. He didn't really care about the grade he'd receive anymore; he was thankful it was all over.

In the back of his mind, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever get to share his poem with Indie, or if he'd have to live with the guilt of not sharing it with her first forever.