Inconvenient Inarticulateness

If he were to ask me how I felt about him, I'm not confident I'd know what to say.

I wouldn't know where to start, or where to end—sufficiently, to satisfy him, but mostly to satisfy myself. Because god knows I've been waiting a damn long time to get it out of my system and tell him.

But when it comes down to it, if I ever get that chance, I think I wouldn't be able to answer his question at all.

Maybe I'd just cry and hope he'd get the point. Maybe he'd realize that every single time he sat next to me and our knees touched and our shoulders brushed and our hands connected with the other's for just a brief moment, I felt a spark of hope. And then we part ways with nothing more than a careless wave, and it breaks my heart every fucking time. Because I remember when our goodbyes lasted at least ten minutes, spouting out every last-minute afterthoughts we could think of and finding every excuse for another hug.

There are times when I want to launch a boulder straight to your face. Times like that I want to scream at you and blame you for all the sleepless nights I've spent thinking about you instead. About what used to be and what could've been. I want to snap at you and tell you to not sit so close at this booth we're in because I don't want to feel that little jolt of electricity when your knee inevitably rests against mine, like it's the most natural thing in the world. And I thank what ever god is out there that you can't sense it when I tense up and stifle a shiver when our shoulders bump or when your arm accidentally brushes against mine. I don't want to fight a blush whenever our hands touch when we reach for the same thing and I feel your eyes on me and there's that awkward 'ha ha, no, you take it' moment.

And I feel an urge churn in the pits of my stomach. I want to, so badly, to be able to meet your eyes and see their rumored golden shade. I don't imagine gold to be a particularly striking color—I've got tons of gold bars at my disposal—but I'm sure on you it's beautiful.

If he asked me how I felt about him, I would tell him, in no uncertain terms, that I think I'm in love with him. And that, however emotionally-handicapped he may be, I want to be with him.

I want to be with him as he struggles to find the appropriate words and smile in amusement when he groans and surrenders—opting, instead, to just do something to express what he had in mind.

I'd want to tell him that I think about him unhealthily often and that when I kiss other boys, sometimes I pretend it's him and it makes the kiss just a little bit better.

I love it when we sit next to each other when we're out with our friends, because I enjoy the metaphorical sparks of your discreet attempts to be close to me. It helps affirm my longstanding belief in fairytales and dreams coming true and though you're not exactly the ideal Prince Charming, I'm not exactly Princess Damsel in Distress either, so together we could've gotten our Happily Ever After.

Or maybe I was imagining it all.

Maybe I was just attaching intentions to your actions and meanings to your words, and generally making a big deal out of nothing and leading myself on.

Because at the end of the day, you go back home to her, and your heart skips a beat every single time she walks into the room.

And mine breaks just a little.

A/N: A little ramble that came to mind—published in part due to my desire to get something out, and to let every one know I'm still alive and kicking.

So I hope it's not too painfully obvious who my intended characters are, though I did go out of my way to give some big hints. I felt this piece should be a bit more universal, and could be applied to any character—and I hope you, dear reader, never feel a love so painfully unrequited.