She Loves Him…
Authors Note: Okay this is a one shot that I had to get off my chest. I haven't written anything in a long while and I have a few stories I need to finish, but this needed to get out of my head. So voilĂ , and I hope you enjoy. Oh and yes I'm back and going to finish the rest of my fics. Xx
He doesn't realise it, and probably never will. He's pig-headed and stubborn and as blind as any male when it comes to affections. Guys these days aren't made up of old fashioned tales of epic love and romance, no. They're a mixture of cynicism and immaturity wrapped up in the blanket of bromance induced peer pressure. So when I told him she loves him, it didn't surprise me when he shrugged it off his lab coat shrouded shoulders and let it go on the passing breeze of the recycled air from the AC.
She has this tattered old photo album underneath our bed, she gets it out on nights when the rain dashes from the heavens in heavy droplets that would make you think the sky was falling. She holds it with a tenderness she reserves for intimate moments, her fingers dance lightly over the front cover, sliding down the spine in slow anticipation, her eyes wide and a small smile on her face which I know is a front for her fear.
Each time this book is opened, her childhood confronts her, those Indian summer days trapped between the yellowing pages, perfect innocence, immortalised. She flips absentmindedly past the soft skinned chubby cherub she was at six months, and past gaps in smiles, curly pigtails and bright pink backpacks, straight to the middle of winter, where he hides. Beneath the blanket of snow in all six shots are mirror images, blonde hair of similar lengths, ocean eyes that sparkle with the glittering ice beneath them, smiles that boast of a happiness long lost to those days. The stills on these pages are dog eared, the clear film that protects them streaked with rivers of sadness, loss, despair, and occasionally a joy she can never truly share with the person trapped there, no matter how much she wants to.
The picture on the next page is one she often glosses over, she has occasionally taken it from the protective sleeve and tossed it into the trash, too hurt by the content to keep it around, no matter how much it kills her to let go of her last memory, her last time with him. Somehow, it always ends up right back on that page, their matching smiles, arms holding one another, her in a Christmas knitted sweater speckled with snowflakes and him, the perfect gentleman in camouflage. On more than one occasion I've fished through the contents of the trash, rescuing their smiles and popping that memory back into its rightful place, awaiting her approval should she ever choose to revisit it with an open mind and open heart.
She lost him a long time ago, all she has left is this tattered book, those memories she has clung to, and on those nights in the rain, where she falls to her knees in front of the wide glass doors that lead to our balcony, the rivers running down the glass panes a clear reflection of the ones rolling down her pallid cheeks, she remembers a little more than she can handle. She breaks. The book find another previously sharpened edge blunted as she throws it across the room, the pages fluttering on the same wind she whispers his name, it's more of a plea than a declaration, sometimes its almost her begging and I've wished on stars that I could help heal this pain she keeps trapped inside her heart, and between those pages and then he came along.
It's been almost a year, there's a layer of forgetfulness clinging to the dark red cover, a film of grey dust bunnies that bounce around undisturbed as the days pass. Rainy nights have come and passed, and she's remained right there next to me in our bed. I haven't rolled over to find cold air, or the slight warmth of her lingering impressions in the bed sheets. Instead I've been met with embraces and nights of perfection that I can only describe as heaven sent, wishes come true. But there's a reality to why this is happening, and it's because of him.
He doesn't realise it, because not all men are perceptive, some have the ability to see what's in front of them, but many just step aside and let it pass, others choose to ignore it, after all, ignorance is bliss. He is the latter, completely ignorant as to how much he has actually done for her. How much he actually means to her and so I'll tell him once again, I'll remind him and this time, maybe I'll do it in a way which means he will have to take it in.
Because she already lost her brother, she can't lose another.
She loves him, loves him like a brother, and sometimes when I see her look at him with annoyance, or pity, I see the child she lost, the teenager she lost with the brother she buried. He's given her hope again, he's given her peace and it's more than I'll ever be able to thank him for. It's more than he will ever be able to understand and when he leaves, which he will, and I won't try and stop him. She will come to realise that she hasn't lost him for good, because sometimes best friends are made early in life, and sometimes they don't find you until later on.
Alex Karev is not Tim, and I know Arizona knows that, but she loves him with the childish innocence of a sister, regardless and when I watch them together, the way he rolls his eyes at her, and she curls a fist against his shoulder, I know he loves her too.
Thanks for Reading, hit review and leave me a little love or pity I'm not fussy xxx