Personal diary - read if you wish. Rambling is an important pasttime of mine. Just here because I don't want to hide a paper diary under my bed. Rated for language.
September 10, 2010
He had his arm around you. For 1 hour and 17 minutes, with breaks in between. Yes, I counted. I was standing above you in the stands, 7 seats up, looking over my new friends. They are nothing compared to you, sweet giver of breath. And so I did not watch them, I did not even watch the football. My eyes were on you, you and that boy. I consider myself your special circumstance - you know who you are to me, for the most part. I love you, I say, I would be dead if not for you. And since that March, since I promised myself I would not wait 80 years to see you in Heaven (or Hell), there's this new thing that's come up. It's a problem: I love you. In more ways than one.
And I've told you, I've told you so many times, and you either do not understand, or you do not wish to.
You have a boyfriend now. What a strange little word. A month ago, we were young - innocent, laughing, we squealed in the cinema, pointed fingers at the boys who so cleverly evaded us. But now, now you're sneaking a kiss after a day together in the pool - holding hands and hugging.
I played with your hair yesterday, like I usually do, and you looked around at me quickly, and said you thought I was him.
He runs his hand through your hair, and you know it is him.
I did it first - the protective arm wrapped around your chair, the gentle feel of your hair in my hand, your breath on my nose when I got too close.
I was first, but all you can think about is him.
I choked when you told me he kissed you - you thought it a coincidence, but it was more than that. I choked on realization - those clouds turning grey, flowers wilting - it caught not in my throat, but my heart.
And when the game was over, when he walked you off the stands - I watched. I climbed to the top of the bleachers, so many feet above you. You didn't look up, not once. I watched him, with your hand in his. And when you left, he watched you leave.
Like I do.
But do you know what?
I walked down there, and as I stood there, his friends joined him. He didn't see me - didn't care enough to notice. And, my sweet friend, I was right. I knew he was bad - everyone told you to leave him alone. I told you, please trust me, you can trust me, my friend.
"She's a fucking desperate bitch."
His exact words - this person you call your boyfriend. I won - I caught him, red-handed. And yet, I won't tell you. I lose all credibility as your defender when it comes to him, when it comes to boys - I cannot be loyal, only a jealous lovesick friend, they say. But I heard him, I caught him. I cannot tell you, but I know you will hear soon. There is hope for me - hope for me.
And for your sake, I wish I had not been right.
When he plays with your hair, do you not ever think of me?