September 11Mature

The dance last night was murder.

The first hour and a half seemed to drag on for days. I danced and danced. My dear friend was attached to her guy's hip, so I did not bother staying in any one place. I can dance anywhere, if she is not there. From 8 to 9:30, I danced and I sweat. And it must have been 9:45 when he kissed her.

It didn't matter how stupid they looked, or how young we are. It was like walking into a wall of bricks - seeing them, together. They looked stupid, but not stupid enough to kill me. It's deliciously ironic that she knows exactly how to save my life, but she can kill me in five seconds flat. 

He ran his hand through her hair - beautiful, black hair. It was a knife, flying through me. Show me the nearest cliff - there's no saving me this time. That last half of the dance - it felt like a week, a week of crying and dying and knowing, realizing, finally, that I had lost.

It's not him. I don't hate the boy - I don't hate him at all. I feel lost now, like the reason I've been living will become why I should die.

I can't find an escape from this. There's nowhere to get out. She asked me if something was wrong. "Do you have a problem?" Asked me like she always does.

There's no reason to hide myself anymore. I lost, so what does it matter if she hears the truth? I'm going to tell her soon. I wanted to wait until we were older - 3 years, perhaps. But those are 3 years I'm not willing to waste. I'll tell her soon, let her tell me, finally, truly.

"Do you have a problem?"

Yes, of course, my sweet friend. My problem: I love you.

The End

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