She loved him, hopelessly, helplessly, recklessly. It overwhelmed her, crashed into her, consumed her, every time she met his eyes across a crowd. Every fiber of her being longed for him, his touch, his voice, his eyes on her. It was a constant ache, a need, it made it impossible to think of anything else. No one else would ever be him, no one else would ever effect her like he did. His smile lit up her grim, ugly world. He made her a better person. He made her think maybe she could be more than what she was.
Seeing him with other girls killed her, of course. That redhead over the spring months, the raven-haired girl from uptown in early June, and then, of course, his princess, the one everyone knew he'd end up marrying some day, the only girl he'd ever seemed serious about. And she was perfect. Of course she was, he loved her, of course she was perfect. Pretty, and smart, and amazingly educated. She could talk about politics, and current events. She could keep up with her brother, with adults. And she was brave, too. Brave enough to flirt with him, brave enough to get him, brave enough to just kiss him, in the middle of a crowd. Everyone cheered at that, and at many of the kisses since then. They were, after all, the crown couple, the ones everyone was jealous of.
And it wasn't even that she was jealous. She wasn't. She was happy for him, happy that he was happy. She wanted that more than anything. But it hurt, that he was happy with someone else. That his smiles were the same smiles he gave everyone else, but the smiles he gave his princess were heart-melting. That he looked at her, but he never saw her. Never saw her devotion, the way she always defended him, the fact she would do anything for him.
She knew he was better off with someone else, as well, that made it worse. He would be miserable with a girl like her, a girl with a past, a cheap girl. He was better than she was, she didn't deserve him. What she deserved was loving him, and knowing she would never, ever have him. He would never look at her and say, "I love you, Mandy." As far as she knew, he only even knew her nickname. He should know her nickname- he gave her the nickname. Goldilocks. He called her that, offhand, casual, just a comment on her hair. She clung to it, the only thing he'd ever given her.
And when he finally married his princess, made her his queen, which he would, everyone knew that, she would still be there, happy for him. Breaking, dying inside, and her tears would be for her own loneliness, not for his joy, but she would be there. She'd force herself to go. She'd throw rice with the others, smile, see them off. And after they were gone, she'd go back home, wherever home was, go back to work, whatever work was, trudge through her days, settling for someone else, someone less than him, because being alone would hurt too much. Knowing her, she wouldn't pick her consolation prize well, either, she typically had such bad luck. She'd regret it, regret the children, regret her life. Eventually, some day, when she was old, and dying, she would regret him, as well. Some day, dying alone, she would regret loving him. Regret the depth of it, the hurt of it. And that bitterness would kill her. Loving him would kill her.