Mark. It's such a strange name. No creativity what so ever. Just mark. Like a pencil mark on a note pad. or the birthmark on my thigh, shaped like a wilting daisy. Mark. I originally thought it was short for Marcus. No, just Mark. I whisper the word repeatively to myself, and find it sounding more odd every time I pronounce that one syllable.


One syllable. That's all it takes to make my heart skip a beat. To build pearls of sweat on my forehead. One syllable, and I have to control the silly giggle building up in my stomache. I have to calm the pitter-patter of my fingernails tapping. One syllable. and everything goes haywire.


I see that Mark everyday in school. everyday in third-period, world history. I see him, but he doesn't see me. In the blue seat in front of mine is where he sits. Everyday. His brown hair blocks the chalkboard. but I don't mind. I'd rather see the back of his head anyway. His dark brown curls.


I'm such a chiché.



I fell asleep in that class once. I remember waking up to my name being called. Not by my teacher though. I opened my eyes to see those dark brown ones, squinting with a smile. I heard his laugh. echoing though me.



"Caisie" he laughs.


I can barely control myself when I here someone say that one syllable name. When that one syllable person says my two syllable name, it's that unidentifyed figure that derscribes esactly the feeling inside my stomache. It's just... Just a Beautiful Mark.