It hurt when I was shown a picture that tore me apart; her face against yours.
And you looked happy. How could I dream of taking that from you? Even if I think I could love you more than her, how could I rip you from your bliss with my confession?
At least one of us is happy. I'm okay with suffering if you're happy.
But I can't help but look for you in the halls and try to see you between classes. I try to imagine that when you crane your head to look in my direction that you're looking for me, and that you secretly love me too.
But I was a complete bitch to you in the beginning. I thought you were a fool and an idiot and annoying. I was so wrong.
You were idiotic at times with your questions but I wonder if you asked them so that I would correct you. You were foolish with your wide, pure grins but I wonder if you wanted to make me smile. You were annoying, but not exactly, just persistent and that is so, so rare.
I miss talking to you. I miss correcting you and sneaking grins and words.
I miss seeing the freckle on your right ear that is so adorable to me. I miss seeing your blond chin hairs when you turned just right in the light because you didn't have time to shave. I miss seeing your eyes crinkle up with your smiles and your mouth twist when you cuss and your hands grip a pencil like it's a fragile flower stem.
It's insane how much I love you.
But I doubt my love for you. I wonder if you only saw me as a sister when you looked me in the eyes, leaned in, and told me my right eye is darker than my left.
You saw the green in my eyes that hide until they are in the light. Maybe that light was you.
I wonder if you cleaned my glasses because you saw me as a sister or loved me or just did it out of the kindness of your heart.
My friend swears you love me too. Her eyes come to life with mischief as if she knows something I don't. She writes me tales about love so that I hold on to the shred of hope I still carry in my pocket, the tip waving in the wind of despair.
Maybe this is Karma getting back at me. Maybe I threw away a chance at mutual love with him, the one that is a distant friend, the one who lied. What did I do to deserve this?
Unrequited love. It's the most underappreciated kind of love, the one songs don't sing about and books don't end with. But it's the most abundant.
I don't want to be another victim to unrequited love and the-one-that-got-away stories. I want to be happy and alive and vibrant wrapped in your arms with your chin on top of my head, a hand caressing my brightly colored hair. I want everything you have to offer, your flaws, your demons, your strengths, your love. I want you.
But I can't have you.
But I love you.
I want to stomp up to you and grab your arm and confess in your ear, "I love you."
Until then, while you're happy, I will suffer in my unrequited love for you.
