Pants And Roses

Read till the end and get a cookie 🍪. Only Heroes Read till the end. I wish this story gets adapted into a TV series. Hope you'll be there along the way. Share to a friend and the friend of a friend. Vote and add to your library. A Romantic Comedy. "Pants and Roses". Get inspired by it and relate to it. The morning light broke into my room like an uninvited guest, pulling me from sleep. I turned on my side, groaning, and the first thing my elbow hit was a small pink bag lying on the floor. The bag opened, spilling brushes and lipsticks. “My sister again,” I muttered. “Always leaving her makeup everywhere.” It was strange, maybe, for a boy like me to wake up with makeup as the first sight. But in our house, unusual things were usual. I put the brushes back, shaking my head, when a loud crash came from the living room. Before I could move, my older brother’s football rolled inside my room like it was chasing trouble. I rushed out and saw him standing beside the table, eyes wide and guilty. On the floor lay the broken pieces of my favorite mug—the one I used every morning. “Are you serious?” I shouted. He just shrugged, lips tight. Not even sorry. Not even one word. That was my brother. Always the golden boy. Perfect at football, perfect at jokes, perfect at making everyone love him. And me? Imperfect. Always second place, always clumsy. I bent down, picking the broken pieces. My hands shook with anger. “It was my favorite.” Still, he said nothing. He just picked his ball and walked away. I wanted to scream, but something on the wall caught my eyes—the calendar. The red mark I made months ago stared back at me. Today. My sixteenth birthday. Sixteen. A number that felt heavy, like I was supposed to be someone new today. Someone bigger, stronger, braver. Someone who had already kissed a girl. But me? Nothing. I hadn’t even held a girl’s hand. And the thought hit me again, sharp as ever: which girl would even kiss another girl? I sighed, brushing dust off my pajama shirt. Life had its ways of reminding me how different I was. At breakfast, the smell of pancakes filled the kitchen. Mom hummed a tune while serving plates. My sister scrolled through her phone, nails freshly painted. My brother, of course, bounced his ball under the table. “Happy birthday, dear,” Mom said with a smile. She kissed the top of my head before sliding a plate in front of me. “Thanks, Mom.” “Sixteen now,” she said. “Almost grown.” “Almost,” I repeated, though the word felt like a joke. My sister finally looked up. “Sixteen? Don’t tell me you still want Barbie cakes like before?” She laughed, showing her friends’ texts on her phone. I rolled my eyes. “No Barbie. Not anymore.” “What then?” my brother asked between mouthfuls of eggs. “Football shoes? A ball? I can help you choose.” “I don’t want football,” I snapped. “I hate football.” That shut him up for a second. He raised his brows like I had just spoken another language. The truth was, I was terrible at it. I had scored in my own goal more times than I could count. I fell flat in the middle of matches. While other boys ran proud under the sun, I stayed clumsy, tripping over my own feet. But I didn’t care. My heart belonged somewhere else. While boys filled the field, I filled my corner with books. Rom-com novels, especially. Those cheesy stories where a clumsy boy meets a perfect girl and they find love after a hundred silly fights. That was my stadium. That was my win. Still, I didn’t dare say it aloud. My brother would laugh, my sister would mock, and my father would shake his head. School was no different. “Happy birthday!” a few classmates shouted as I walked into the gate. I smiled, carrying my bag tight. But then I saw the football boys already kicking in the field. My brother was there, of course, shining in the middle, legs moving like magic. The girls clapped and cheered. Nobody clapped for me. I slipped inside class and sat at the back. The teacher’s words floated past me like air. My mind wandered to the stories I loved. What would today bring? Would sixteen finally give me something different? I thought of the perfect birthday. Not parties with balloons or cakes shaped like dolls. I wanted something real. Something men dream of. A good girl, maybe. A good glass of wine, even if I wasn’t allowed yet. Something grown, something mine. But by lunch break, nothing came. Just another day of sitting alone, watching others live the life I couldn’t. When school ended, I walked home slowly. I thought of the evening. Would there be cake? Probably. Would my sister take all the attention with her selfies? Definitely. I sighed. Maybe I was still dreaming. Maybe sixteen was just a number after all. At home, Mom had balloons tied in the sitting room. A small cake waited on the table. My sister had invited her friends, all of them louder than me. They painted their lips red and laughed in high voices. My brother showed off his new football tricks to them, soaking in their applause. “Make a wish,” Mom said, pushing the cake toward me. I stared at the candles. I wished for something simple: to feel seen. To feel alive. To feel like my story mattered too. I blew out the candles. The smoke curled into the air, but nothing changed. After the small celebration, I escaped to my room. I opened another rom-com novel and lost myself in its pages. There, the boy always found the girl. There, mistakes turned into happy endings. But outside the window, real life waited. Later that night, when the house finally grew quiet, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed, turned, then gave up. I slipped out of bed, wearing only my pants aka underwear, and walked outside. The cool night air kissed my skin. The street lamps flickered, throwing long shadows across the road. That’s when I saw her. A girl stood at the edge of the street. Tattoos covered her arms like wild stories drawn on skin. Her dark eyes locked on me, sharp and dangerous. For a moment, my heart stopped. She gave me a deadly look. My throat went dry. Then, suddenly, she burst out laughing. It wasn’t a sweet laugh. More like a sound she wasn’t used to making. Like it had been trapped inside her for years. She was even bad at it, but it still made my chest tighten. And then I noticed what she held. A bouquet of roses, their red petals glowing under the weak streetlight. I froze, staring. Sixteen years, and this was the gift I never imagined. The girl with tattoos. The girl with the deadly look. The girl with the bouquet. And she was standing right there, in my story. Thanks for Eating I mean Reading, 😀 You've made someone smile meaning you're a Hero🦸.