She sits there, a gray wool sweater wrapped around her, her denim-covered legs squeezed tightly together with porcelain-like hands folded neatly in her lap. She wears no make-up, save for the mascara combed lightly into her eyelashes, a dark border for her even darker eyes.
She stares at him from across the courtyard, the wind whipping her hair around her face, blocking him from the view of her sad and tormented chocolate eyes.
He's with her again, the one with short black hair, the one with green eyes that hold only hate and never light up even with what would be the happiest of laughs (for her). The girl who thrives on putting him down and all others around her, the one who insists on gaining power and respect where it isn't deserved.
She sits there and stares, willing the tears to fade away, willing him to turn her way and pierce her tearful gaze with his steel-blue eyes.
He lifts his head up, his long blonde hair falling softly across his eyes, as though he's heard her thoughts and at that moment her heart stopped and her breath stilled.
But those beautiful orbs of steel-blue didn't do anything but scan the crowd, as though she wasn't there, as though she was no one.
She lifts her right hand up, to slowly (and somewhat absent-mindedly) wipe the tears and mascara running down her cheek.
She moves her right hand downward, realizing that her effort to wipe her tears away are pathetic and places it instead on her stomach, rubbing it in soft circles.
She looks down and whispers softly to her tummy, a small smile gracing her grief-stricken face, "he might not want to, but that's okay, I will love you enough for both of us, my little one."