It's the small things that hurt the most. The way he touches her back while he talks football with Jarred. His hand keeping a light but steady contact with the small of her back, all the love he has for her pouring out in that gesture. The way she walks up and kisses him in front of them all, a ray of sunshine beaming down on him while the one who has loved and accepted him for all these years sits in the corner, abandoned. The way he will look at her, gazing awestruck across the room at her.
It's not the quick sharp pain that struck her in the beginning, leaving her catatonic. Now it is the slow steady ache that she will carry with her for the rest of her life. She is left feeling hollow, unworthy. She loathes herself, for not being everything he needed, for not being perfect, for not being her. She stands in front of the mirror, a tall girl with wide hips and shoulders, dark hair and blank vacant eyes. She doesn't eat anymore, preferring to float through the day's light headed and weak. She has loved him since forever and she will love him until the universe ceases to exist. She tries not to think of him but how can you just forget a life, a world? You can't.
She wonders if any of them remember that she is here. That she exists, curled up in a corner watching them. A black cloud of gloom that hangs over them. Or if they have just forgotten her, forgotten the days when she was the one standing next to him, and his intense gaze lingered on her. Not that he ever loved her. She was far too dark, imperfect. He was her watchful older brother, her friend, and her love. She wished.
And years passed and she grew tired. And she still ran to see his face even if it was bent to kiss her. And she still felt numb when he spoke. And she still felt him running through her veins like wildfire. Her wild, temperamental wolf-boy. He ignored her and lavished his intense gazes on her and ran wild with her children. And every time she managed to fool herself, for one minute, into thinking that some part of him was hers she was jolted back to reality. He had never been hers and never would be.
She was the shadow in the corner and she was the sun that shone around him. And she wondered, why in the world poets sang over the torments and beating pain of the heart. Love wasn't a song or roses; love was quiet screams in the night and tears running down her face. Love was death, coming silently and slowly, draining everything out of you until you had nothing left. Until there was nothing left of you to love. Until you were a ghost. And everyone knows that ghosts are neither dead nor living, but doomed to wander the nameless void forever. Because ghosts are love.
A: This is not my best story ever. I just couldn't get this out of my head so I thought I'd give it a shot. POV is an anonymous girl who loves one of the werewolves. It could be any one of them, it really doesn't matter. Anyway, tell me what you think!!