Heather by Conan Gray: A Short Story

3rd December.

It was the third of December when I decided I would shoot my shot with you. We'd been hanging out for months and you had been giving me every sign that you liked me. You even gave me your sweater one night, sitting on the roof, swigging vodka. I would give anything to go back to that night: you throwing your head back, laughing whilst I rested my head on your knees. You were drunk, I remember it so well, your curls decorating the nape of your neck as you chuckled at everything I said. You made me feel like I was the funniest person in the world, you know, you made me feel like the most special person in the world. And then you gave me your sweater. Your favourite sweater you had gotten the Christmas before, forest green with a ribbed collar, and you decided to give it to me.

'it would look so much better on you' You giggled pulling it over Your head, your shirt riding up so I could see everything underneath. I tried to fight you off but you caught me, your arms around my waist, imprisoning me and wrestling the sweater over my head. I gave into you, like you knew I would. You always win.

'you see, I was right, it does look so much better on you- even better than I thought' I think it was meant to be a compliment but compliments aren't always true- this seemed like a proclamation, a fact, even though I didn't believe you still. You looked a picture in that sweater, made you seem mysterious, painting your iris's green rather than their usual hazel. So much better than how I looked, but I didn't say a word. I wanted that sweater, because I wanted you, your scent, your everything. I still have it now, hung on the door of my closet, waiting for the right time to make a reappearance. Like today.

I pulled on your sweater to help me with my courage, I was going to tell you how I felt, how you made me feel. I had a whole plan goddamit.

The hallways were crowded when I arrived at school today, rehearsing what I would say over and over in my mind until it felt tattooed into my brain. I caught a glimpse of you through the crowd, in a dark blue jumper. I wanted to tell you looked beautiful, but I knew you'd take it as a compliment: I wanted you to take it as a fact. In my head, you were always mine.

I got closer to where you stood, nearly close enough to reach out and tap you on the shoulder, but that's when I saw her. Heather. From chem. Gliding down the corridor like the angel she was. Fuck. How I hated her. Then I noticed what she was wearing: your varsity jacket. It was hanging off her shoulders in an adorable-y oversized way- everybody was watching her. You included. I bet you told her she looked good in your jacket, I bet you shared drinks with her on a roof, laughing till dawn. And I loved you. I fucking loved you with my whole heart, yet you were oblivious. You had my heart in your hands and you squeezed it until no pulse ran through it. She caught you eye and spoke softly to you.

'I enjoyed last night, same time next week?' Her perfect lips formed that perfectly flirtatious sentence. And then those perfect lips pecked you on the cheek, then with one flick of her hair she walked on. The worst thing is you looked perfect for each other, like you were meant to be; a jock and a princess. Not a jock and a nobody. That isn't how the movies go.

And , my god, how I wished I were Heather.

I lay on my bed now, the 3rd of December is nearly over, only five minutes until this day from hell finishes. I ripped off your sweater when I got home and slung it over the chair in my room. I'm staring at it now and remembering the time I was delusional enough to believe you loved me. It was just a sweater.