The unease was tugging at you, a weight in the back of your mind, and yet at the same time, you were left feeling more complete than you ever had. His hand was clasped in yours, making circles across your skin, while the other traced your jaw line, but those were the only places where you were touching, and those were the only places where you could feel your blood pumping. His cologne infiltrated your sense; you could smell it, and it made you dizzy. You were scared you'd fall, but a voice in the back of your head said easily, He'll catch you. His breathing was even and long and constant, lullabying you into a sense of false security, for you knew that once you spoke, there was no going back to this moment. So you kept your mouth firmly shut so as to not disrupt the calmness that entered you the second he grabbed you while you were running down the hall.

You couldn't help but run. Your tough, take-no-shit persona had failed you for the first time, and it had left you feeling helpless as his ex-girlfriend stood and screamed at you.

"You're worthless," she had said, "You're nothing in comparison to me. It's a shame he can't see that–it's a shame you haven't realized it in yourself yet–but it doesn't change the facts. You're not as pretty as me, you're not as smart as me, you're not as social as me, you're not as entertaining as me and there is nothing you can do about it." And it ate away at you because you knew she was right. She was the It Girl, whereas you had always been the girl on the sidelines, the girl with the not-so-perfect hair, the grimace for a smile, the okay grades. And she'd had the courage to point this out to you, to tell you how it was. And you'd stood there, you're lips parted in silent agreement, but for once in your life, there were no witty comments on the tip of your tongue. Nothing left to say. The one thing that had always stuck by you when you had thought you had no other attributes to offer had finally given up on you.

You'd ran. You couldn't stand being in the same room as the girl who just screamed perfection, and you couldn't stand being in the same room as him, the one that even though neither of you had said his name, you both knew who it was. It was always about him. But he'd stood there, his lips parted just like yours. You'd caught his eye, tears instantly brimming in your eyes, and that's when you ran.

"Lily!" he'd yelled after you, "Lily!" But you paid him no mind, you couldn't bare to face him. But his legs were longer and quicker, and he easily caught your hand. You'd stopped the moment your skin came in contact with his, and he linked your fingers together, looking straight into your soul. He took a step closer so that you were close but not close enough to touch, letting his head hang next to yours, and somewhere in between that time and when you were standing there contemplating it all, your tears had dried and he had placed his forefinger on your jaw.

"God, you're beautiful..." he whispered, so quiet that you were almost sure it had been your imagination, but at that moment he stopped stroking your hand as he realized what he said; he let his finger sit in one place on your face, and you were sure he hadn't yet inhaled.

You tensed. What were you supposed to say? You'd never done this, this wasn't your forte, it never had been. Boys, no matter how much you'd wished for them, never went after you. You were always the one they went to for advice, the one they came to when they realized their relationship was shot to hell. And you were always there to pick up the pieces, you just could never put the pieces together again for yourself.

And yet there he was, telling you that you were beautiful. There he was, comforting you, helping your tears dry. The breath hitched in your throat as he slowly drew back from you. His hand dropped from your face, but the other still firmly held your hand. His eyes, those hazel orbs behind the wire-rimmed glasses, sought acceptance from you, sought the mutualness of the statement he'd just uttered seconds before.

But you couldn't give it. Yes, you were attracted to him. Yes, you fancied him. Yes, the feeling was mutual–it'd always been mutual. But you still weren't that girl.

"She was wrong," he whispered when you did not reply. "She was so, so wrong."

"I..." you whispered back, quieter even than he, because you didn't want to shatter the moment, and you didn't know what else to say. There was nothing for you to say.

"Don't believe her. Please God don't believe her because if you did it'd be such a waste of you. And I don't want to see that because you're so...you're just so beautiful," he repeated.

"Why'd she say it?" you asked, quietly, and his half-lidded eyes open fully, staring at you.

"She's jealous."

You paused, before asking the question you were begging to be answered: "Why?"

He stared at you even more intensely than before. "Can I kiss you?" he asked instead of answering your question, though in a way you suppose it essentially did.

He didn't wait for your answer before letting his lips fall perfectly, gracefully, finally onto yours. And you didn't question it, because for once in your life you were that girl. And that was okay for you–that was better than okay for you–because his lips were soft, and his arm had now encircled your waist, and you had to stand on your tip-toes just to reach him because he was so tall, and he left this feeling in the pit of your stomach that left you terrified and ecstatic at the same time, and you couldn't figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing because it left you half wanting to run away and half wanting to never leave again in your life, but it was okay–it was all still okay. And this moment, you knew, would follow you for the rest of your life, whether you stayed with him or not, whether you remembered the day or the boy or the place, you would always remember those lips and that feeling of inexplicable completeness.

And that was okay. Because you always would be that girl.