They said he was insane.
They called him psychotic, crazy, mad. They thought he was obsessive, demented, disturbed. But he knew they were wrong. He was none of that. He was just a boy in love. What was so wrong about that? Love made the world go round, and he loved every bit of them.
As he stood on top of that building, staring down at the objects of his affection; hundreds of them moving from place to place, their refined forms gliding effortlessly; he smiled softly. How were they so perfectly flawed? So beautifully ugly? Works of art played like putty in his hands. They never knew how much they were being watched, how much they were loved, yet they drowned in their own misery every day, believing that they were alone.
With a flick of his wrist, the switchblade in his hand was flipped open, revealing with the sun's glint his reflection. How he longed to be like them, but alas, he would never. So he begrudgedly dragged the blade over his skin, watching with delight as the red liquid spilled out, tainting his skin. It felt so warm, so pleasant, so…so human. He laughed maniacally at the thought, watching the blood trail down his elbow.
He had never felt closer to his beloveds.
"I'm human!" He wanted to scream. "Look at me, love me back!"
But he didn't.
One day maybe, but until then, he would continue to watch them from afar and long to, one day, be…human.