To all the girls who have ever gotten they're hearts broken:
"Only time can heal your broken heart, just as only time can heal his broken arms and legs." –Miss Piggy
Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah, this, that, the other.
He might not know it, but he is always on your mind.
6 AM
You step from the steam shower and scrutinize your appearance. Your hair is too Anne of Green Gables. Your skin is too Kristen Stewart. Overall, you're Linsey circa the 1990s. Sweet. Innocent. Funny. He's still asleep, his tousled blond locks and luminous skin always perfectly touchable.
(You will your hair to darken into a lush brunette and your eyes to deepen into a sassy amber.)
9 AM
You're bored to tears in history. He's probably asleep.
(Dour gives the dullest lectures about the meaning of life and the human spirit.)
12 PM
You're sitting to his left, shoulders almost brushing. His arm is carelessly slung around your best friend. They are BOCD's golden couple.
(You can't cry now so you pretend that whatever he just said was hilarious.)
3 PM
You're lounging outside of the Versace's dressing rooms, waiting for Massie to pick the perfect possible dresses for her date tonight. He's probably running soccer drills right now, focusing only on the upcoming game.
(Life is the game and you're losing.)
6 PM
You sit down to a tasteless, unevenly heated Weight Watcher's chicken breast while Merri-Lee is out with a celebrity young enough to be her brother. She won't be back until tomorrow afternoon. He's probably getting ready to take Massie to the new French restaurant in the city.
(You have a date with 3 pints of Haagen Daz's and The Notebook on pay-per-view.)
9 PM
You toss aside your half completed algebra homework and loathe your previous binge. He's probably sitting on the hood of his Mercedes counting stars with her.
(You see a shooting star and don't bother making a wish because your heart's already broken.)
12 AM
You rest your head on the cool porcelain of the toilet seat, your old green toothbrush clenched in your left hand. He's probably kissing her goodnight.
(You give in to your old habit for him.)
3 AM
You lie awake amid a pool of downy comforters and thousand-thread-count sheets. He's asleep.
(You can't even escape reality in your dreams.)
You cling to the hope that one day, you will be more beautiful in his eyes that her. You hate yourself for hoping.
She might not know it, but she is always on your mind.
6 AM
You're out running. Every step you pound on the asphalt, every breath you take, every thought in your head whispers her name. Dy-lan. Dy-lan. Dy-lan. She's probably getting ready for the day. She never fails to stun him.
(If only she would look his way.)
9 AM
You're half-asleep behind the textbook propped up on your desk. She's probably furiously texting her friends during history.
(You wish you had the courage to send her a message.)
12 PM
You're sitting across from her. Her laughter is pure music. Her curls shimmer beneath the harsh, unflattering florescent lights.
(You laugh along even though you see her focused on him.)
3 PM
You're running soccer drills. Coach beamingly claps him on the back and gently reminds you to focus on the game. She's probably at the mall with Massie, enjoying herself.
(Life is the game and you're losing.)
6 PM
You poke your meatballs with disinterest. You can't keep anything down when Dad is "working late". You can see your mother in the living room, staring longingly at photo albums from your childhood. She must be eating dinner with her family now.
(You go running because you can't stand to see your mother living a lie.)
9 PM
You set aside your algebra homework. You know that your "friend" is going to copy your answers in homeroom anyway. You'll let him because you can't stand to talk to him anymore, let alone to tell him to do his own fucking work. She's probably gossiping on the phone with her friends.
(Your baby sister tugs on your hand to point out a shooting star but you ignore her because your heart's already broken.)
12 PM
You sit in a half-filled bathtub and contemplate taking the toaster in with you. She's probably obsessively planning her next random date/trip to the Hamptons/sleepover.
(You stand, dripping wet, because you realize you'll only hurt your mother even more.)
3 AM
You lie awake amid a pool of rumpled sheets and dirty clothes. She's asleep.
(You can't even escape reality in your dreams.)
You cling to the hope that she'll ever tear her eyes from him just to see you. You hate yourself for hoping.