In the words of Harley King, "One must give himself completely to his art and not hold back. Throw caution to the wind. Embrace the muse. Make love to your art.”

She needs a muse. Someone to watch, to wonder about day in and day out. To feel for and just be stunned by and surprised by. 

To turn her eloquence into thoughts of wordless blankness as she just tries to process what it meant when her muse just smirked at her the way he just did.

A subject that will just melt her into a puddle of oh-my-god's and what-just-happened's and no-one-can-see-the-look-on-my-face-right-now-right?'s. 

A boy, nay, a man (as she would correct herself and declare for emphasis) who she needs to sit down and think about. Find just the right words to describe who this man is, what he wants out of life, what he's experienced.

Maybe find the right words to figure out what it is she wants from him.

He doesn't need to stupefy her every moment of the day by being a god among men (though, she wouldn't frown upon it). As long as he's around to remind her of what it's like to feel.

Remind her what the high is of being forbidden, or being her secret. What the low is of the hurt, the way she feels even more alone when she's alone because now she knows what it's like to be next to him.

And then she'll go home and breathe for a moment or to, then let herself totally explode all over the pages of her notebook. Her awe of him takes up a line or two, then the adrenaline she feels, how she is physically driven to be near him. Paragraphs and paragraphs about how she's driven, how it's not exactly sparks flying. It's a little more like an electric current.

It's not as if she knows she is going to meet him or that she is looking to. But after the first lapse in judgement, the slip up that he will be there to create, there will be no rescinding the invitation into her mind. His name will just embedded in her brain, shooting off its own synapses. He embodies pure, unadulterated dopamine, in total dysfunction with her brain's inner workings.