I am taller than Simon Snow. At least I have that. This boy stole everything else from me. He stole my voice, stole my attention, stole my love. I didn't chose this. I didn't want this.
I hate Simon Snow.
And yet, when he walks into a room, my eyes are attracted like magnets.
I drown in his blue eyes, I drown in Simon. I've found myself unable to even talk. I'm too busy trying to stay afloat. Trying to stay sane.
His moles, like constellations, are so close. He is so close, just across the room. I could touch him right now.
He's so close, but he will never be mine.
But I'm still taller than him. It gives me an immature sense of superiority, like it doesn't matter how he consumes my every thought: I've got three inches on the bastard.
There's always part of my brain thinking of Simon Snow. It's hard not to think of him. I've been in darkness for so long, when I look at him, it's like looking at the sun.
I can't function with Simon Snow. The words that usually come out of me through my pen are cut short.
They are cut short by blue eyes. And bronze curls. And constellations.
They are cut short by Simon fucking Snow.
