THE TIME SOMEONE HAD A CRUSH ON ME

So check it. This was in Year 4. Ages: around 8-9. Now, a little context on me in Year 4.

I was such a neek. In my free time, I was just hanging out behind trees (where cars drove past the school), talking to adults through the metal gates, pretending I was the boy in *The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas*. I was the type of kid to sit at the "friendship bench"—a bench for future antisocialists—and just wait for someone to come to me, only to deny joining their group because I was “sad.” That way, more kids would come to ask.

Anyway, I wasn’t all that bad. I only did that when I wanted attention from blond girls. I didn’t do it often. Really, I was a sweet kid who never did anything that bad. They used to call me the BFG. But then again, this is Ayah you're talking to.

Alright, so there was this little boy—we'll call him Aiden. Now Aiden… he was alright.

No, I mean—he was a good kid. A new kid who arrived around January. Blond hair, blue eyes, looked like Rory from *Little Lunch*. He was the kind of kid who might vomit in the middle of class but also had a great laugh.

I hung around with a group of boys, playing *It* and doing World War II reenactments. Every time a new kid joined our school, I’d try to include them in our games, due to a past incident…

Anyway, Aiden would always stick around me. We’d pretend to be a prisoner, and together we’d scare adults beyond the gates, begging them to free us. An pretending to be murderers and chasing the girls. I thought he was my first best friend. There were days we would just talk. No playing.

Another thing about me—I was on trial for Special Needs.

Teachers had suspected I had special needs as early as nursery, but they could never put their finger on it. I struggled with reading but was great at memorizing passages. I’d forget number placements but could recite prime numbers.

Maybe I was just a good chatterbox.

Anyway, writing was my worst subject by far. Creative writing, especially. It was so bad that I had a teacher’s assistant sit next to me to help. I never knew exactly what I was doing wrong, but apparently, it was bad.

The assignment of the day was to write about our “best day.”

I wrote about moving to a big house with stairs and a backyard, where I could ride my scooter to school.

Next, we had to proofread with a peer. I hated this, because I felt embarrassed for anyone to see my mistakes.

Aiden asked if we could swap stories.

When I read his story, it was about him and me having a picnic in a meadow, searching for a rare flower. And at the end of the story, he gave me the flower.

Okay. Okay.

Now, tell me what THIS IDIOT over here said after reading such a SWEET THING:

“Miss didn’t ask you to make up a story.”

BUT I MADE UP MY OWN STORY, SO WHAT WAS I EVEN TALKING ABOUT?!

Yes, I admit it—I didn’t catch the subtext or whatever. I was purely focused on marking the grammar.

“Oh… okay,” Aiden mumbled, burying his face in his arms.

I thought he was upset because of my feedback. So, I felt bad and gave him an 8/10.

Three days later, I had a dream of the exact story. And that’s when I realized my mistake.

Now, why did I grab a holy scripture in the middle of the night, pick a random verse, and beg God to take me back in time? Or at least make Aiden forget that day?