Disclaimer: Really, not mine. James, Lily and their relationship belongs to J.K Rowling, I'm just a sixteen year old that likes to write.

A/N: I honestly have no idea where this came from. Yesterday morning I just opened Microsoft Word, started typing and hours later this came out. I think it's cute, so I decided to post it. Please be awesome and review. It isn't that long (only 581 words) so just take a few minutes reading it. Please?

White Summer Dresses

The summer after my sixth year, the year I finally realised that she was mine, was filled with dreams about her.

Dreams in which she wore white summer dresses and we went to the beach together. She would yell at me when I splashed the salt water on her dress and I would kiss her softly when she did so, causing her to forget about her wet dress and kiss me back.

In those dreams her hair was wavy and tousled and her face was sun kissed, covered with freckles that made her even more perfect to me, if that's even possible. Her brilliant eyes shone with happiness and love- for me. She didn't love me in real life, but she did in my dreams.

I never told anyone about them. I knew my friends would laugh at me, telling me a sixteen year old couldn't love a girl the way I loved her. But I knew what I felt for her was real. I longed for her, longed to feel her soft skin under my fingertips, longed to smell her intoxicating perfume when I buried my face into her soft hair. I longed for her to love me. And in my dreams she did.

In my dreams she loved me with the same intensity as she hated me in real life.

The dreams always took place on a beach, for a reason still unknown to me. They were never quite the same, the only things that never changed were the colour of her dresses and the 'I love you's' that always escaped her throat sooner or later.

There were the ones in which she ran around in her dress, daring me to catch her and after thousands of 'catch me if you can James' I'd finally tackle her and tickle her until she begged me to stop over and over again, which I didn't do until she promised me at least one more sweet kiss.

Sometimes we lay on the sand together, staring in each others eyes for hours , whispering soft I love you's and from time to time kissing each other, sometimes soft and slow and other times more passionately until she'd tell me to stop because everybody could just see us laying there.

In other ones we'd walk for what seemed like an eternity until she suddenly stopped walking, grabbed my hands and pulled me with her into the ocean, not caring anymore whether her white summer dress -sometimes a long one that reached her feet and sometimes one so short that it was barely called appropriate- got wet and dirty. We swam for hours and sometimes, when I least expected her to; she suddenly came up from under the water and kissed me softly before pulling back when I attempted to deepen the kiss.

In those dreams, those heavenly dreams, she was mine, and mine alone just like I was hers. She loved me in my dreams, loved me like she had never loved a boy before.

In a way those dreams could be described as the best thing that happened to me in that period of my life.

But they weren't.

Because every time I woke up, I had to face the fact that she would never wear white summer dresses around me and that she certainly would never tell me, James Potter, that she loved me.

And every single time I realised the fact that those dreams hadn't been real, not even for a bit, a small part of me died.