Yes, I am aware that I took a huge hiatus. And changed my name. But I hope that I can make up for it.
Disclaimer: I don't own FFVIII. Oops.
They really were very different people, he supposed. She was all happiness and sunshine, while his talents revolved around a rifle and his now not-so-great luck with the opposite sex. He was losing his touch, she was honing her skills. But he didn't care. It was her, it was always her.
He'd wanted her ever since he'd seen her again. Even after her flippy auburn hair had grown out and straightened, and her outfits gradually changed from jumpers and combat boots to more girly clothes like real dresses and leggings and flip-flops, he knew she was the one. She'd been his childhood fantasy--two years of seeing her in the flesh was nearly maddening.
He wasn't sure what he liked most about her. It couldn't be her cheerfulness, because, truth be told, that could get overbearing at times. She wasn't beautiful or sexy, his own ideal for women, but she was cute. More cute in the "looks like a twelve-year-old" way than the cute the guys went after, though. It wasn't her skills with weapons either. While watching her demolish grats in the training center was a turn-on, Selphie's nunchuku weren't nearly as sexy as Quistis's whip. And he wasn't exactly a Trepie-in-training, so to speak.
He supposed it was their differences. They were so different, completely and entirely different. She slipped and he slid.
Selphie would fall quickly. Spend a minute tending to her wounds, maybe crying it out for ten, but he was different.
He slid as he fell, getting farther and farther from the beaten path. Once he was able to stop and lick his wounds clean, he was so far from he started that he could barely find his way back. And the way back was long and teary and he hated it.
She slipped and he slid. He didn't understand why they did it, or how, but they did. She scraped her knees but he fell harder. That fact amazed him at times, but it also angered him to no end as well.
He hates how she treats heartbreak like it's nothing. Like the second she flings herself off that cliff, she's fine. And she's still fine when she hits the bottom. She'll be upset for a day, burying herself into another mountain, of tissues this time, whining about how every single guy she dates has to be crap.
He wishes she'd give him a chance.
But the next day she'd already be floating on the clouds, miles above his head.
He hates how fast it takes her to move on. He's not a stranger to heartbreak--he's played both roles in that game. He feels bad because he breaks hearts every day, but little does anyone know that his is broken everyday. By a girl who slips by as his slides away.
He hates love but he loves her. And he can't help it. For him, love isn't just any mountain, it's freaking Everest.
When he falls, there is no parachute. There is no protection. And he always seems to hit the ground, each time harder than the last.
He hates that she slips and he slides.
Because someday, she'll slip from right out of his fingers.