You find her often when she’s laughing, the sound almost annoying, yet definitely drawing you closer. Her head thrown back in mirth, she always wishes she’d have the pearly laughter of romance novels. You watch her neither in fascination, like select few others, nor with slated eyes, wanting to bludgeon her head. You watch her knowing you shouldn’t, knowing it’s somewhere you should never ever fixate your eyes. You secretly hope no one can tell. You hope she doesn’t know.
She does. She turns around and sees you, and her entire face lights up. Your heart skips a beat; in joy or fear, it’s irrelevant. She lifts her arms to call you over and as she sits on the bar stool, her head fits perfectly under your chin. You wish she wasn’t so warm or so inviting.
She is. She is everything your significant other isn’t. She’s not beautiful and she’s not extraordinary, but in the common she shines like nothing you’ve ever seen. If you had half a brain cell, you’d know you’re so in love it should hurt.
It does. But you blame it on the unattainable. You blame it on yourself, the carelessness, the great debacle that your evenings are recently. She looks up and smiles, and all you can think is that you wish to god she’s smiling because of you. Or for you. Or anything that is related to you.
She does. You manage a tiny lift in the corner of your mouth. She tells you she missed you and you nod solemnly, to remind her of the gravity of that situation. Your eyes are smiling, your entire soul feels like smiling. It’s almost ridiculous how easy she can throw you off. It’s ridiculous when you realise the blandness of her being. It’s beyond ridiculous to ever think she’s bland. You know she isn’t. You hope she knows how special and unique she is.
She does. But she doesn’t particularly care. Not when you hold her close, as close as a friendship allows and tell her about your life. She’s fascinated with you, or so you think anyway. You try to never lie to her. You always try your damn best to tell her everything, and yet to leave out your significant other. You think she’d get upset. This time, though, you can’t help it. You tell her you kind of broke up with your significant other. You don’t think she will show any signs of recognition.
She does. Her eyebrow shoots up, waiting for more information. For an explanation. For her fucking heart to stop racing like a horse on crack. You know this because she told you once that when she’s too emotional, that’s the way her heart goes. So you explain, tell her anything and do your best to hide your disappointment when she’s not as excited as you’d expected.
She is. Her hand shoots up to pat your hair in place, although she knows it’s useless. She eventually looks you in the eye and tells you that as long as you’re happy, she’ll support you. Of course she bloody will. You’re important to her, she tells you. It’s nice to hear it. No one’s told you that in years. You tell her you were thinking of going away for a while. You tease her, of course. You ask her if she’d miss you.
She would. She tells you so. With a frown on, she hops down from the bar stool. She’s quite short, so you have to take half a step back to look her in the eye properly. She smirks, and finally tells you that she knows. She knows you’re not going anywhere. You wouldn’t dare leave her alone. She’s right, but you neither confirm, nor deny it. As she stands, you hug her from the side, your body engulfing her. You whisper her name, and she looks up. When you kiss her, both your heads bent rather awkwardly (yours forward, and hers as far back as it could go), both her hands holding on to your arm, you hope she’ll kiss you back.