phantasmagoria
1. monochrome
She thinks she wants to kiss him.
It happens when she thinks about him, just as light peeks beneath her eyelashes, as she wakes up; just before darkness hums its sweet melody, as she sleeps, a random thought that passes her by. The thought comes to her as she lets people pass her by, stuck in her own world; as she doodles on a random sheet of paper, staring listlessly at the work she is meant to do, before crumpling the piece of paper and chucking it in the bin.
There are so many unwritten love letters that she never intends to give him.
It's her secret, one he'll never know, as he remains beside her unaware of her restraint. He'll sigh and shrug and slouch as he complains, and she'll laugh it off like there's no tomorrow and the sun will stay ever blissful in its zenith, as she glances at him, wondering what's on his mind.
She'll tease him and ruffle his hair as often as he refutes and passes the ball towards her, trusting her to make the winning goal.
And after all that's said and done, she'll smile at him, lingering at his side as he walks her home, discussing future soccer tactics and silently wondering how to incorporate it into a confession. But he gets it, in his way; kicking the ball to her in exchange for her heart. He grins back, one day, hopelessly, as if he understands her dilemma between love and friendship.
It's kind of adorable, kind of goofy, and kind of inexplicably them.
Her hand brushes his, almost caught in the web of intertwined hands that lovey-dovey couples have, and as his heat burns against her icy skin, the day seems brighter among soccer sweat and black and white fears. It's the way the wind blows his hair, the way his eyes gaze at her, the way she leans into his side that thoughts like those make her heart twist and face flush with an unexpected reaction and the words almost tumble out, the litter bin overflowing into the tranquil ground.
She knows she wants to kiss him.
But she thinks she never will.
Disclaimer: I do not own bleach.