Through the arguments and the challenges, through the magic and the crazy curses, despite the parents, I have one truth:
He'll always come back to me.
I know I'm not as pretty as some of his fiancees. I'm certainly not as strong or fast or powerful. I could never show my feelings the way they do. All I can do is be there.
I'm the last person he sees before going on those insane training trips. I'm the first to greet him when he returns. I bandage his wounds. I offer what comfort I can, as little as it may be. I provide a shoulder to lean upon, an ear to hear his troubles, an outstretched hand.
Deep in my heart, sometimes I despair. I rant and rave against the box life has forced me into. The life I'm trapped in. Sometimes, I want to break out and damn the consequences. Yet, I can never force myself to do it. For all that I hate it, my life wraps me in the warm, comforting embrace of regularity. I hold the hand that I have been dealt, because I'm not as strong as he is. He can look life in the eye, throw the cards in its face, and tell it where to put them.
I... I can't. I wish I could. All I can do is dream of all that could be, but will never happen.
So I stay in the background. I hide the pain behind a placid smile. The longing is shoved deep inside, buried beneath a lake of calm politeness. I watch every smile he gifts another with and feel them stab into my heart, knowing they'll never be for me. But that's okay. After all, I have a lifetime of hiding myself in this mask. It's been so long, I almost can't remember what it's like before I started wearing it.
And I watch him as he fights and yells and lives, lives like I only dream of. I watch, when he trains. I watch, when he eats. I watch, when he thinks he's alone.
I watch, as his eyes shine with a pain and longing and despair so deep that it takes my breath away. And I realize:
He's just as alone as I am.
Somehow, my hands are pressed against his cheeks. I never realized he was shorter than I until now. I can feel the question in my eyes. I can see the answer in his.
And I know, with the faith of a mountain, a simple, pure truth.
He'll always come back to me.
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Author's Note:
The first one I wrote, obviously. I was going to leave it there, but then my muse babbled at me and started nagging me until I slapped out a few more. Blame her.