ᴱᴸᴸᴵᴼᵀ

Everytime he looks at me, I feel a rush of adrenaline. Staring at those lips—his eyes a dark abyss that I get lost in. But it hurts. "Friend" He calls me. When will he see that I could be ʂσ ɱυƈԋ ɱσɾҽ...? More than Sarah is. That girl is all looks anyway, she probably doesn't even remember his favourite colour, or the way he likes his coffee. But I do. A dark maroon—the same way he likes his coffee—strong, untouched, like he's afraid of soft things. And it’s stupid, I know. Watching from the sidelines like some lovesick extra while she gets to touch him, laugh with him, act like she knows him. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t see the way his hands shake when he’s anxious, or how he stares too long at the sky when he’s trying not to cry. She doesn’t hear the quiet in his voice when he says he’s fine. I do. I memorize him like scripture, and still, he looks right through me. Like I’m safe. Like I’m nothing dangerous. Like I’m not the one who’d actually stay. It’s getting hard to breathe around him. Like every room he walks into, the air just folds itself around him and leaves none for me. I see him and my chest tightens—pathetic, really. I hear his voice in songs that aren’t even about him, catch myself smiling at messages he didn’t send. It’s a sickness, and I feed it every time I replay our conversations like they meant something. Maybe he’ll never know, maybe he’ll never care—but God, if he turned around right now and said he needed me, I’d run. No hesitation. No pride. Just this foolish, aching love wrapped in skin. It's a regular Tuesday as I sit in the library with you next to me, your eyes locked on your screen as you chat with Sarah. I read, but I'm not really reading.