My Heart Belongs to Leo

My heart, a tiny, fluttering bird trapped in my chest, belonged to Leo. Not just a little bit, like how my teddy bear belonged to me, or how the red crayon belonged to the box, but all of it. Every single fluttery beat was for him. He was the sunshine that made the playground glitter, the reason the swings went higher, and the secret ingredient that made graham crackers taste like pure magic.

Leo was… well, Leo. He had the kind of hair that looked like spun gold when the sun hit it just right, and eyes the color of the sky after a rain shower. He laughed easily, a bright, tinkling sound that made me want to laugh too, even if I didn’t know why. He was also older, maybe a whole year older, which in kindergarten years felt like being a grown-up movie star. And he liked me. I knew he did. We shared snacks, for starters. Not just any snacks, mind you. The really good ones. Like those little goldfish crackers that crunched just perfectly, or the mini chocolate chip cookies that melted on your tongue. When Leo shared his snacks with me, it felt like a royal decree, a sacred pact.

“Here,” he’d say, his small hand holding out a perfect cluster of goldfish, his sky-blue eyes twinkling. And I’d take them, my own hand trembling just a little, and offer him one of my precious cookies, the ones Mom had packed just for me. It was a silent understanding, a language spoken in the clinking of cracker boxes and the soft rustle of cookie bags.

Our love story, you see, wasn't written in sonnets or whispered secrets under the moonlight. It was etched in the scuff marks on the slide, the intricate patterns of sandcastles we almost built, and the triumphant squeals when we managed to snag the best spot on the merry-go-round. My world was the sandbox, the swingset, and Leo. Everything else was just… background noise. The other kids were like blurry figures in a photograph, important only because they were near Leo.

My most prized possession, besides Leo himself, was my collection of shiny pebbles. I’d spend hours in the sandbox, meticulously sifting through the grit, my fingers searching for those little glints of mica or quartz. I didn’t keep them in my pocket for long. Oh no. They were destined for Leo. I’d sneak them into his toy truck when he wasn’t looking, or tuck them into the pocket of his little blue jacket. He probably never even noticed them, but that didn’t matter. It was the thought, the secret offering, that made my