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To be infatuated is to forget. To forget that a person is just a person. Flesh and bones. Abercrombie jeans. Crippling anxiety. It's all just a glittery manufacture of who they want people to think they are, but not them.
But Enia cannot fathom life without him.
You grow older, and colder, and less dream oriented. That's when you realize it was never love. . . But no, not her, not Enia. She adores him with every cell in her body. It's beginning to become a bit of a problem, really. Whatever, who cares. Her parents love him too. It would be a nightmare had they not — hell would reign loose in the Ferguson household.
Something bothersome is beginning to swell inside of her chest. She's not sure why he frustrates her so much . . . but she knows she doesn't want it to stay this way. The Lahote boy is terrible, the exact opposite of her boyfriend. It's too bad he works at her dad's shop. Life would be massively more convenient if he were to not be in her life.
It's the questioning that's most confusing, and it's all his fault. Enia is perfectly content in the relationship she already has. Mhm, very very content.
