I spray the perfume on my sleeve and bring my nose closer, but find no scent - was it a scam? It looks as if someone bottled water in a basic glass container, but then why go through all the trouble?

I still have faith and make my way to class.

My chest feels like a balloon blown to its limits and ready to pop. My mind goes through a million worst outcomes in the few seconds it takes me to grab the handle and open the door. Eyes lock onto me instantly and the teacher complaining about my absence isn't helping with easing the stiff air.

My confidence has diminished. My eyes remain on the floor as if being dragged into its grey pit. Miss Harrington's harsh tone is like being hit with a scarf when compared to the public rejection I faced earlier.

His swift steps reach me in an instant. My thoughts are blast away by a sudden softness against my lips. When I catch his familiar cologne my heart explodes like a firework, sending an array of joy, and a tingle through my body. His arms pull me in before our lips part, and I take in every sensation - I never want to forget this moment.

"What do you think you're doing?" Miss Harrington disrupts us, her voice is a chainsaw cutting through the sweet, blissful, songs of birds.

"Let's go." He whispers before whisking me away, down the stairs and out the double doors. "I'm sorry about what I said before." His hand tightens around mine, "I want to make it up to you."

We waltz into the reception room, the receptionist's mouth is paused at an O shape when we dash past and towards the exit. "Now?" I ask with anticipation.

"Yeah," he replies as we run towards the sun, steadily settling into the clouds, and I can see my bright future ahead, wedding bells chime from across the street. Was summer always this golden?

The heat embraces me tightly, the wind is a gentle touch; a pleasant, tender, fragrance skips through my nose gently, as we run I feel calmer than ever.

Exhaustion brings us to a stop by the stone fountain, we've been working our legs for several minutes, but where to? As much as I enjoy having him by my side.

When I voice my curiosity he responds with a sparkle in his eyes, "wherever you want to go?" My heart flutters.

I bring out my phone and begin reading out loud from the six pages list I made once before. Still recovering from his lips, my hand is barely able to grip the device - this is real! He actually likes me.

When I reach destination number seven on my list he stops me, "does the cinema sound fine?" Without my answering, he leads the way. Wherever we go doesn't matter in the end, as long as he's by my side forever.

I pick his favourite movie genre, his favourite snacks, then we find our seats and rest comfortably on one another, fingers hooked and my head on his shoulder.

I will never forget the rhythm of his breathing as his shoulders rise and fall and the wrinkling of his nose when he chuckles softly.

I will never forget the scent of buttered popcorn dancing through the air and seeping into the fibres of our clothes, following us out the cinema.

You're the only thing that has meaning in my life.

At my suggestion we return to his place. His home is semi-detached, clean-cut grass at the front, a cracked pot of sulking flowers by the window, and a freshly painted navy blue door.

The dangling keys summon a woman in her forties, her eyes are red and swollen like a cherry, at the sight of her son she immediately pulls him into a hug, and I'm left feeling like a ghost.

"Mum let go!" He demands as his hands struggle for freedom.

"Where in the world were you? Why didn't you come home?" His mum's voice is soft, but broken, likely from hours of crying.

"Can you not do this here," he continues and his head almost turns to me, if not for his mother's snake-like hold on him.

Eventually, the tearful woman acknowledges my presence by eyeing me cautiously, and I can tell that she's already put me in the 'bad apply' box, "can we come in?" I ask her with a lightly painted smile.

"What did you do to my son?" She immediately accuses me of misleading him. I'm not a dirty stain on a white cloth, I didn't force him to do anything.

Even if it came down to becoming a mannequin, I have to keep to my future mother in law's good side. My eyes land on her high cheekbones, soon I'm finding myself analysing her features: the distance between her eyes, the shape of her eyebrows, the width of her nose - he looks like her.

"Don't talk to her like that," to my surprise he quickly defends me, making my heart skip. He leaves his mother speechless as he pulls me through the entrance.

"Don't you dare bring her in," his mum, Mrs. Carter warns with a buffering voice.

"I live here too," he protests and my other foot passes the thresh hold.