Hello, feel free to skip this if you're not as invested in the story.

So to start, I believe that anyone who's ever put ink to paper or finger to the key is allowed to call themselves a writer. It's challenging and tedious work to get your thoughts written out on paper. So I commend you for doing that if you are, in fact, a writer. 

Now the background for the story.

I met a boy when I was nine; I've loved him since day one. We had an instant spark, and I didn't go anywhere if he wasn't with me. He went away when we were sixteen, just like Harry from the story.

We had a field outside our house where we use to spend all our time. He taught me that there's no one way of looking at something. Made me see that life can not be put in a box.

Things go on, and the story progresses much like Flowers in his hair. 

 We met randomly at a later stage, me moving back home and him being my next-door neighbor. The house he fixed up was my grandma's old house. He did indeed get a nail in his hand. 

He always wanted to be a photographer, which he did and he was amazing at it too. He was the inspiration for every single thing I did. When I stood on the edge, he pushed me off, always knowing I'll get my wings on the way down.

What a fucking privilege he was. Every step I take, I look back waiting for him to catch up to me.

Here's the shitty part about real life. Till chapter 27 is our story, but unfortunately, he is no longer mine—a little ode to you. 

 You're still the wind beneath my wings.