Watching
He watched her
And she was perfect.
Perfect for him, yet so unattainable, for obvious reasons.
Her unruly mass of curls cascaded down her back. Her body was clad in a simple knee-length black dress. But even though it was simple, it made her look as royal as a queen. The 7 years after the war had become her.
He watched her as she flitted through the festivities-hall, socializing, talking to her friends. She didn't notice the coveted glances males shot her, nor did she notice their less than subtle flirting. Her innocence was quiet unbelievable, for a twenty-five year old woman. Her wide-open eyes, so trusting, and her boisterous laugh, as if she didn't care that she didn't sound 'delicate' or 'feminine'.
She probably didn't too.
And then her eyes fell on him. He stared back unashamedly, almost gauging her for a reaction. She glared at him, and then turned away. He sighed. It didn't surprise him, it was as it had always been.
Hate
Passion
Hate
Passion
Passion
Hate
He didn't know what was whose anymore. His passion. Her hate. Her passion or his hate. They were indistinguishable. Sometimes he wasn't even sure if he hated her passionately, or if he passionately loved her. What was love anyway? Falling love was fickle. Love didn't last long.
He didn't know love.
He just knew that he would die without her. Be it that he had to spend his life just watching her, loathe as he was to it. What he felt was stronger then love.
He wanted to see her eyes lit up, her cheeks turn red, even if it was from anger at him. He wanted her to glare at him, smile at him, laugh her boisterous laugh at him.
Anything
He wanted her to feel him, feel for him, no matter what feeling.
She hated him, he was certain of that.
He felt...something for her, whatever it was.
It was strong, it kept him alive.
He needed it, the passion, the strength she gave him
He needed her.
So, he watched, until she would need him.
If she would ever need him.