The day that Stiles walked away was the day he forgot how to breathe.
This was not the first time he had attempted to stop his obsession with the red headed entity that was Lydia Celeste Martin, but this was the first time he had managed to walk more than a few steps.
It was funny, really.
This whole thing was goddamn hilarious.
His life should be a sitcom. An endless series of laugh tracks chorusing around badly written puns and plotlines that change at the flick of a button.
Stiles desperately wanted his role to be recasted. As someone fitter, someone ready to be weighed down in endless responsibilities no one believed he had.
Make sure Scott doesn't hurt himself, check.
Make sure Derek doesn't kill anyone, kind of check.
Get Lydia to notice him on something beyond the platonic level, check minus, you failed the assignment.
Why was it every time he felt he was getting close, someone or something got in the way?
Maybe she had a thing for killers, maybe it was she wanted a challenge and he was so goddamn in love with every single inch of her that she couldn't be bothered.
Lydia Celeste Martin preferred blue to pink but felt like pink suited her better. She liked winter better than summer because of hot chocolate. She had twenty-three freckles trailing up and down her left arm and a beauty mark hidden in the crook of her neck.
Stiles adored the ground Lydia looked upon. He loved her brain, her body, and her soul down to the smallest element that made her the sassy, intelligent, and beautiful girl she was.
And the generous, brilliant, and honest woman would become.
But today was the he moved on…it would be better for everyone this way.
The future was not kind to those who chose adoration over a high sense of self worth.
So as he stared into his bathroom mirror, he tried to forget how many freckles she had or her color or season preference.
There was no Lydia and Stiles, there would never be.
What good was holding on to a person who tries so hard to loosen your grip? Stiles wasn't that dumb, he could catch a hint.
He had just ignored it in order to remain hopeful.
But hope is not a meal one can survive on for ten years of absolute craving a returned feeling.
Stiles breathed in and tried to let go.
Lydia and Stiles.
Stiles and Lydia.
The Princess and the lowly Jester.
The problem was, there was always hope in a slip of a touch, a hint of smile.
And Stiles held out for those brief moments of clarity.
Maybe, miracles did occur in the blankness that happened to be human longing. If so, Stiles was determined to wait for one.