It starts with a lie. It's a small lie, not quite a white lie, not quite an evil lie either, it's the kind of lie you tell yourself and others that's lost somewhere in varying shades of grey. He tells himself that it's only one time, that he will never let a thought like that pass his mind ever again- part of him longs to tell himself that it won't be just one time, that it could never be one time, not when it was her, not when she was looking at him like that. He doesn't think it's wrong, it's not as if he's the first male to ever think of a girl that way but, he can't shake the feeling that he's crossing some sort of line or breaking some kind of rule. He thinks it anyway, he disregards any warning his subconscious tries to give him, because it's just a rule and he's always been a rule breaker. He has yet to learn that all rules can be broken but, some rules need to be kept to protect himself. He dares to think the thought, dares to see her as more than just a friend, dares to consider her in a light that is anything but friendly. He tells himself he won't do it again, that she is a friend, that he shouldn't think of friends like that, but ... he does do it again.
It happens before he can stop it, the thought slips into his brain and blooms before he has a chance to squash it. She smiles, a quirk of her lips that is soft and warm and affectionate; he can't help but think about what it would be like to wake up to a smile like that. A wall in his mind is broken, shattered when he decided to think that thought, to break that rule. He can't stop thinking it, can't stop thinking what if, what if, what if. She's on his mind even when she's not there but it doesn't matter he can stop, he can rid her from his mind, can uproot her like pulling up daisies. Her hand brushes his and he feels feverish, she pulls him in close and there's fire in his veins, she laughs, lilting and perfect, and his brain is alight with euphoria. She's consuming him, the thought of her is tearing up his brain, rooted so deep it's become a need to see her, to hear her. He can quit whenever he wants, can kick his habit as easy as breathing.
He stops seeing her, stops contacting her, swears that he'll lock her in the friendzone and that's where she'll stay. Except he can't, he can't quit and no matter how many times he tries to pluck her from his thoughts she's rooted so deep he just doesn't have the strength to pull her out. He wakes up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night; it's her smile that haunts his dreams, it's her laughter that echoes in his ears. She's everywhere, he wants so badly to pick up the phone, to turn up on her doorstep, because he's already an addict; she's the worst kind of drug, the kind that sinks into your system and stays there, the kind that sends you so high you see: the stars, the universe, heaven. She's a class A drug and he's going through withdrawal.
He lasts two weeks before he cracks, grabs the phone and breathes properly for the first time since he decided she wasn't good for his health. She's bright like the sun and serene like the moon, she's something otherworldly, superlunary. Suddenly, being an addict doesn't seem to be so bad, not when she's the drug, not when she's smiling at him like that. He's craving more of her everyday, he needs her like he needs air but, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay because she's just a drug and this is just infatuation. There's a part of his soul that's whispering her name like a prayer but, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay because he's not falling, he's just used to the feel of all her sweet words fizzing through his bloodstream. There's a picture of her on his bedroom table, just her beaming at the camera, it's the only thing he owns that never gets dusty but, that doesn't mean a thing. He has her number on speed dial, because sometimes her voice is the only thing that calms the storms of emotion that rage under his skin. It doesn't mean a thing, it doesn't mean a thing, it doesn't mean a thing.
He's an addict; he craves: her heart, her soul, her mind but, he's not falling. He tells himself he can't be falling; a part of him knows however, he can't not fall, not when it's her, not when she's looking at him like that.
