'She's already in love.'.
And that's it. He leaves, leaving that last remark hanging in the air
between us. I can't believe it. How does he know? How can he know
something about her that I do not?
I turn to look at her. I know my face is incredulous, and I wait for
her to turn to me, make a remark, a denial,anything to break the
tension. She doesn't. She just stands there, lost. There isn't any
surprise on her face. There's only acceptance. It's as if he's just
revealed to her something she knew, deep down inside herself. Why
doesn't she say something?
I know I love her. I've loved her for a very long time. I never said
anything. I don't know why. Part of me assumed she knew. Part of me
was afraid of what she would say, afraid she would run and hide. Part
of me wanted her to say something first, confirm what I thought she felt
for me. I was never sure though. She was always so cool, so
self-possessed. I always felt there was a part of her I couldn't reach.
But she is in love. He said so. I want her to turn, say it's me, so I
can tell her too, and the long agonising wait is over. She doesn't.
What if it isn't me? What if all the games, the flirting, the shared
moments of desperation and death and joy didn't mean as much to her as
it does to me?
I think it does. I hope and pray desperately that it does. But still
she doesn't turn. I told her I loved her once. She just dismissed it.
If she turns now to face me, she'll know I meant it.
She doesn't. I can't say it, not until she does, and I don't think she
ever will. She's turned her back on what could have been the moment we
admitted it, and all I can do is watch her walk away, and hope she'll
turn back to me one day.
And that's it. He leaves, leaving that last remark hanging in the air
between us. I can't believe it. How does he know? How can he know
something about her that I do not?
I turn to look at her. I know my face is incredulous, and I wait for
her to turn to me, make a remark, a denial,anything to break the
tension. She doesn't. She just stands there, lost. There isn't any
surprise on her face. There's only acceptance. It's as if he's just
revealed to her something she knew, deep down inside herself. Why
doesn't she say something?
I know I love her. I've loved her for a very long time. I never said
anything. I don't know why. Part of me assumed she knew. Part of me
was afraid of what she would say, afraid she would run and hide. Part
of me wanted her to say something first, confirm what I thought she felt
for me. I was never sure though. She was always so cool, so
self-possessed. I always felt there was a part of her I couldn't reach.
But she is in love. He said so. I want her to turn, say it's me, so I
can tell her too, and the long agonising wait is over. She doesn't.
What if it isn't me? What if all the games, the flirting, the shared
moments of desperation and death and joy didn't mean as much to her as
it does to me?
I think it does. I hope and pray desperately that it does. But still
she doesn't turn. I told her I loved her once. She just dismissed it.
If she turns now to face me, she'll know I meant it.
She doesn't. I can't say it, not until she does, and I don't think she
ever will. She's turned her back on what could have been the moment we
admitted it, and all I can do is watch her walk away, and hope she'll
turn back to me one day.