i.
She hates him. She wishes that he didn't exist, that he wasn't here to nullify all of her past victories. She hates him with a passion, and wishes she could show him. She wishes that he wasn't so amazing, so perfect, so able to make everything alright just by saying her name. She hates him, hates him, hates him. He looks at her so blandly, like a bug, irritated and tired, and she hates him for it, for dismissing her so easily.
She hates him, she really does, and sometimes, just when she hates him the most, she loves him.
(She wishes, wishes wishes wishes that there was a way to stop loving/hating him, but her grandmother says duty. And duty is to her tribe. But not to her heart, no never her heart.)
ii.
When she breathes, she breathes slowly, and it almost comforts her.
She's always cold, always so cold, and she was never cold before she met him. It was always warm, and sometimes, when she's with him, it's burning, and she's almost consumed by the flames that he brings with him. But he never stays, and she's always left colder than ever.
Honey drips from her lips, honeyed venom, but not aimed at him, no never at him. Doesn't honey draw flies, after all?
She's always cold, she thinks, and when she's cold, the only thing on her mind is him.
(Sometimes, even his look can drive away the cold, but he is never warm to her, and the only time he's warm is when he's pressed up next to her.)
iii.
She is always so calm, so tranquil, and can see people with a clarity that most cannot see themselves with. She waits and watches, and looks within.
She invites her over for a visit, she's shocked but obliges. They quietly drink tea together.
"You haven't chosen well," she states as she begins to leave, "But that often means little to the heart."
They share a look, and she smiles sadly. "Shampoo knows."
When she calls for ramen, she knows better than to say anything when she exclaims that she called the wrong number. When she meets her eye, she knows she understands.
(She's lucky, she gets to be around him all day. But that doesn't really count, not with her around.)
iv.
She sees them together, all mushy and gushy and totally sickening and totally in love and she feels her heart break just a little. She's strong though, because all of her people are, so she only cries when she knows that no one will hear her.
She sees them together and so she still tries, because as long as it's her maybe she can still win his heart.
Others often ask if she'd like her to say something to him, to put in a good word.
She always politely declines, because this is honour and must be done alone.
(Alone, alone, always so alone, even though she's never without company.)
v.
One day she decides that he is like the sun. He is always the center, always in middle, and everything revolves around him. Everyone revolves around him.
She stares morosely at the ground, nursing a cup of tea, and wonders where she stands in the solar system of his life.
Sometimes she can just forget, and sometimes she can imagine that she is the Earth to his Sun, that her need for him is reciprocated by his love, his safety.
Then she'll remember, and laughs bitterly.
If he is the sun, then she must be Mercury – burned by his heat.
(It makes sense she'll think, because she is in a way the closest to him, but she is too close and it burns her, scorns her love. She got too close to the sun, and it repaid her in pain.)