There is no disguise that can for long conceal love where it exists or simulate it where it does not.
There is a boy. Hair black as black as black and stiff as porcupine spines, skin light as night snow, eyes like the calm sea of the morning, and a smile like summer sunshine.
He's a popular boy, talented in many areas, and this boy, the first boy, is in love.
There is another boy. Hair like the starry night, skin like the first snow of the day, eyes like the noon sky.
He's much more popular than the first boy, perhaps as talented in one area, but not in the others, and this boy, the second boy and beloved of the first, is also in love.
There is a third boy. Hair red as fire, skin tanned by the sun, eyes brown as brown can be.
He isn't as popular as either the first or the second boy, nor is he as talented, but still, he is in love with, and is loved by, the second boy.
The situation now is this. The first boy, our protagonist, is in love, but his love is unrequited. Furthermore, the second boy, whom our protagonist loves, is also in love, and his love is reciprocated by the third boy.
So what is our protagonist to do?
There is a girl. Hair like the starry night, skin like the first snow of the day, eyes like the dusk.
She's not a popular girl, merely lovely, but she is in love.
By most standards, her love borders on obsession.
By most standards, her love is unrequited.
By her own standard, her love is not obsessive (it's a strong love, she would say, a love that would stand the test of time).
By her own standard, her love is reciprocated (he kisses me, she says, and he loves me, he said so, he said so).
Once, when he had thought she was asleep, he had leaned over her, and kissed her cheek, and called her Kaede.
Once, when she had been half asleep, she had felt a brushing upon her cheek, and heard someone murmur a name that wasn't hers, and she had said to herself afterward that it must have been a dream.
Once she had said, I will do anything for you, and she had meant it. So he had told her to cut her hair, and to not smile so often, and to sleep more. She had done all of these things. He told her to wear heels so she was almost his height, to learn basketball so she could play it with him, to speak less often, more hoarsely. She had done everything.
She knows, somewhere in the back of her mind, what he wants, who he wants, what he wants her to be. She knows that she can't keep this pretense up, to herself, to him, much longer.
He doesn't see the girl, when he looks at her. Always, it's someone else's eyes he looks into, when she stares him down.
It is a summery day, on the edge of autumn, when he says, Leave. He says, I can't take this anymore, I can't pretend anymore. You're not him. Leave.
She isn't crying, doesn't cry, won't cry, never, ever cry. She says, I will do anything to make you happy, I will do whatever you ask of me, if that is what you want.
They part, and neither cries.
Somewhere, deep within, hearts are torn, ripped up into confetti.
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This niggled in my head until I had to write it.