I watched. I was a watcher, observer, a stalker if you wish. I knew two even better then the back of my own hand; better than myself. I knew that he was troubled, hurt, weak, and lonely. I knew that she was desperate, longing, caring, and kind. I knew that she wanted him to notice her. I knew that he hadn’t. I knew because I watched.
I watched her the first day she’d seen him. She was a new, fresh, face. She wasn’t the one after the attention, although she had it; by me. I watched. He’d been alone in the hallways after school; scribbling down words in a notebook. She’d stayed for a meeting with a club; Beginners Spanish to be exact. I knew because I watched. She’d been asked to stay after to have a small one-on-one with the teacher. Then she’d come out of the room. She saw him. He didn’t see her; he didn’t care.
She tried to get his attention without words. No response. Nothing. With a feeling of failure, she went home. He stayed and he continued to scribble. He wrote and he wrote; mysteries to all who watched. That was the only thing that caused everything.
He was quiet, different, and interesting to follow. She and he had nothing in common. Nothing. They didn’t even know each other. He didn’t know she existed but she loved him. She loved the way he walked, careless. She loved the way he was a mystery. She loved everything about him.
That’s why it hurt me when he died. Slowly she was crumbling. She’d spent over a year of wanting and wishing while I practically lived my life in her shoes. I myself felt like I was her. We were breaking into pieces hour-by-hour. Without him she was nothing. And the worst part? He never knew. I never took his scribbles seriously and I never told anyone. Those notes, those letters, those wills; all good-byes to the ones he knew.
I regret it. I fell in love through someone else’s eyes, and I hate it. And it was all because I watched.