You're carrying a torch for George O'Malley.
You never would have guessed that such an old-fashioned idiom could describe your love life (or lack thereof, technically) so perfectly.
It's a pretty big torch too. If it isn't, you wouldn't be admitting your adoration every time he turned his back. You wouldn't take every possible chance to catch a whiff of his scent, which you've decided is an irresistible blend of fabric softener, his deodorant (Old Spice Red Zone High Performance Solid, because you looked), and that musky smell of the Crapartment. You wouldn't have spent hours upon hours of your own time helping him study for his exam, and you wouldn't have decorated his locker in celebration of his passing.
If that torch isn't burning bright, you wouldn't practically melt every time you think about his kiss, which ignited the stupid torch in the first place. You wouldn't have been crushed when he implied that you two were just friends, or when he didn't ask for you to be one of his interns, and you wouldn't have bitched him out for it. You wouldn't have resorted to crying in your car that night when he ditched you to go to Joe's with his other friends.
And you wouldn't absolutely despise him for not noticing.
He never noticed any of those things, except the whole bitching out part – kind of hard to miss that. He's never noticed the way you look at him, or the way your voice changes into some kind of over-excited squeaky squeal whenever you talk to him. He never sees your cheeks fire up every time he touches you. He'll never know that you constantly replay that kiss in your mind, or that it's burned so clearly into your subconscious that you dream about it almost every night.
You have a hard time admitting it, but he'll never notice you.
So, you're carrying a huge stupid fucking torch for George O'Malley that's inexplicably visible to everyone but George O'Malley. It's clenched in your right hand, its flame barely surviving the wind and rain, begging for shelter that it might never get.
But there's this second flame too. It's not a torch, or even a candle (and definitelynota cinnamon scented candle; you threw all of those away in a rampage). It's more like a match. There's a tiny flare on the phosphorus head, sending a tiny trail of smoke into the air surrounding it.
This flame's for Mark Sloan.
There are the obvious reasons why women love him. He's pretty much the hottest man in existence; even people carrying torches for other people have to admit that. His eyes, his voice, his body, good god. No straight or bisexual woman in their right mind can pretend that they aren't attracted to Dr. Sloan. And you're a straight woman in her right mind.
Amazing looks aside, he's actually a pretty decent person…something that his manwhorish reputation doesn't exactly suggest. He listened to you whine about George when he barely even knew you. True, he did call you pathetic, but you are so you can't blame him for that.
You also heard the nurses whispering about Dr. Sloan letting a little girls sleep on his shoulder in the waiting room a few nights ago. Most of them thought it was adorable, and you have to agree. You've never really seen him with kids before. You've always been a sucker for guys who love kids. It might have just been a one-time thing, but at least it's apparent that he doesn't abhor children.
Lately, you've been noticing things about him. He made it a priority to sit by you at the bar and make you recite the periodic table, all the while listening a little too intently. You can feel him watching you sometimes, from across the hallway or at the nurse's station. The few times you've looked back, his icy blue eyes immediately locked with yours, smoldering intensely as a corner of his mouth turned up into a smirk. Your knees turned to jelly and your hands began to shake. You tried to get away a little too quickly, inevitably running into something or tripping over yourself in the process - grace has never been one of your strong suits. As soon as you were away from him, you stopped short and exasperatedly asked yourself why in the hell you ran away like that. You didn't know then that that's what glances like that do to a woman.
You realize now, too late, that George has never looked at you like that.
Dr. Sloan has tried to approach you a few times, swaggering confidently and grinning. But every time he's gotten close enough, his perfect features fall into an expression of guilt. He pauses, thinking, and then turns the other way and stalks off, even if it's in the complete opposite direction of where he needs to go. He got all defensive and stammer-y when Dr. Shepherd saw you in the supply closet with him. You didn't need any more indication than that to realize. Unlike some people, you aren't completely dense.
Somehow, in some way, Dr. Sloan may be interested in the spastic, torch-carrying wreck that is you. He's piqued your curiosity and has actually given you somebody other than George to think about. Like a Get Out of Jail Free card, maybe the way out of a hopeless crush is to take a chance on somebody new, somebody who has seemingly already noticed you.
Until then, that torch in your right hand is slowly going to dim, unable to stand the bushels of oblivion, rejection, and disappointment for much longer.
And, in your left hand, the other flame is quietly creeping up the matchstick to singe your fingertips.