I've got such bad writer's block that I've resulted to using an online writing prompt generator. After many, many refreshings I came across one that caught my interest.
"Second person. Favourite character. Aggravation/irritation."
I'm not generally a fan of second person narrative because I feel like I'm addressing the character personally and not immersing myself in them. I haven't done any second person stuff since, like, school, and I don't remember doing much of it even then, and I'm in my second year of college now. But, Beast Boy's my favourite character, so, uh, this should be interesting.
You wake up to face another day and stare unseeingly at the underneath of the top bunk. You try and will yourself to leave this bed, this room. You steel yourself up for your morning routine. You will prepare your own breakfast while your best friend questions you yet again on your dietary habits, always picking holes in one of the only decisions you're proud of. You will stare across the room and drown out these taunts. Your eyes will fixate on her, as per usual. She will be sipping her tea and your heightened senses will pick up its aroma. You've grown so accustomed to this action, watching from afar and cataloguing the scent of her drink. You're so captivated by her that you've noted that she alternated between flavours, and these often if not always are a result of the mood she's in. If it's a mint day, you do not approach her. But, it's a lavender day and she is as willing to interact with you as she's ever likely to be. And you make your way over, slinking away from the counter and your still chattering best friend.
You know she isn't interested, because you're not interesting. There's nothing you could tell her that would be a surprise, there's nothing you could say that could coax a laugh. Or perhaps you're not being honest with yourself. In actuality, there's nothing you'd be willing to tell her that would catch her interest. Because you're not as one-dimensional as you like to appear. Presenting yourself as though the surface is all you have is something you've perfected. It comforts you in a twisted way, because if they're convinced that they know who you are, they will not ask questions that you cannot answer.
This irks you, it riles you. You are forever frustrated with the knowledge that she does not truly know you, and therefore you can never know her. She's not as subtle as you are; she has no qualms with her mystery. You know, and everyone knows, that she is more than she appears but there is so much she'll never tell you, and very little you'll be able to find out alone. You know this. She knows this. Her disguise is different from yours. You pretend that you are not as similar to her as you are, and she pretends that others' opinions of her make no impression, but they do. She says she doesn't care, but she does. Her weakness is that she cares more than she can afford to. Your weakness is that you care too much about her.
As you approach she lifts her head minutely, her fingers tensing around her porcelain mug. She never has time for you and your pitiful humour. She could never trust someone so blissfully unaware. But, you are not as oblivious as she believes you to be. You have seen and fought and suffered just as she has. You have witnessed a great deal of her struggles, yet the ones of yours that she has seen are trivial in comparison to those she has not. You hate this; you hate her rebuke of every advance. You hate that she never even gives you an opportunity to redeem yourself in her eyes. She thinks she's seen it all, and this too, you hate.
Your irritation grows as you can see she's waiting for you to speak. She's waiting for you to say the mundane, the trivial and the humourless. It's a good day for her today, with her tea of lavender, so you know she'll acknowledge you politely. She'll be civil this time, but she'll only vaguely conceal that she wishes you'd just leave her alone. This angers you, the fact that when she's in a good mood she drinks lavender and she treats you like a person. You're agitated by the knowledge that when she drinks mint brews she is unapproachable, her behaviour is a harsh as her teas flavour on those days. You are comforted by the concept that you are a better person than she, for regardless of your mood you will always greet someone in the same manner. But you are not a better person. You're a fraud with a smiling mask and a perfectly played cheery-disposition, and this is but another of the things you hate.
But for all these things that anger you, for all the ways you allow her to get under your skin and into your head, you cannot hate her. You could never hate her. She is the only thing that makes sense to you, without really making any sense at all. You know as much about as her as she'll allow, and about as much as you can deduce on your own. You know enough to know that you love her, and this, you hate too.