On the first day, I give him time and flowers. I unlock my closet of oragami paper-over a thousand sheets of bright colored squares. I turn them into flowers. Every single one. I do not sleep. I do not take breaks. Because I know that as well as giving him the time it takes to make them, with every fold, I am giving him seconds of my lide. With every flower, part of a minute. I tie as many as I can to pipe cleaner stems. I arrange boquets and lattice, some topped by cranes. In the morning, I garland them throughout the halls, centerpiecing them all at his locer, so he'll know they're all for him.

Every moment, Every crease is a message from me.

On the second day, I give him words. This isnt to say I talk to him-no, I don't do that at all. Instead, I start a list of the words I love, then adding definitions:

resplendent-shining brightly giddy-light hearted and flightly trollop-an untidy or immoral woman

The words don't have anything in common. But that's what I like about them. After I jot down the words-a hundred in all-I rewrite them nicely on a long scroll under the heading "Words to Find and Know in This World." I tie the scroll with a ribbon. I leave the scroll of words and definitions at his locker at the beginning of my day On the third day, I give him space. I put a letter in his mailbox, wishing him a good day. I don't want to overwhelm him with everything. I also want to give him (and myself) time to think. On the fourth day, I give him song. there is a once when I never think twice you give me that, boy you give me that there is a kind which is much more than nice you give me that, boy you give me that and now, its time for me to revela all the parts of me you've helped become real to feel there is a go that turns into a stay you give me that, boy you give me that there is a dream which goes its own way you give me that, boy you give me that and still sometimes i feel so much fear there are parts of me I want to make clear there is a true which never rings wrong i'll give you that, boy i'll give you that there is a word in search of a song i'll give you that, boy i'll give you that let me give you that i promise i promise to give you that a dream, a song a never of wrong a once, a twice a much more of nice a love, a love a floating of love i'll give you that, boy i promise i promise to give you that. On the fifth day, I give him film. i use money i've saved to buy twenty rolls of film. some of them black and white some bright outdoor color. On top of each container, I write a word from a quote i found from an old photographer. Whether looking at mountains or studying the shadow of a branch, it is always best to keep your vision clear. In order to give him the film in a creative way, I will need accomplices. Each accomplice gives the film to him in a different way. On the sixth day, I give him letters. I know I only have one day left. It starts as a note, telling him I'm sure he'll put the film to good use. Then it turns into a letter. I can't stop writing to him. I barely pay attention in any of my classes, pausing to notice images and incidents tht I can share with him in the letter. It isn't entirely different from when I was writing him notes in class, before everything happened. But it feels more intense. A note is an update or entertainment. A letter is a giving of a part of your soul- an insight into your thoughts beyond mere observation. I finish the first letter. I bum an envelope off my guidance counsleor and seal the pages inside. Instead of relying on my friends. I deliver it to him myself. I immediately start the second letter, beginning with the moment i handed him the first letter and what was going through my mind. Suddenly, the whole thing begins to explain itself-I'm telling instead of showing, but that seems okay, since i've already tried to show so much.

On the seventh day,
I give him me.