You didn't notice him, not at first. Not until you noticed him noticing you.

Your best friend went out with his best friend, which left him stuck with you by default. He didn't seem to mind. He smiled and teased you, and on one summer day, he tossed you in the lake. That's when you started falling for him. Although you weren't sure what to do about it. Mostly, you just blushed and smiled.

But {of course}, you weren't his type.

You knew this because he spent most of your time together talking about girls, the ones that were his type. He preferred blondes to black haired, black haired to redheads, and redheads to brunettes. He said his shade of hair wouldn't look good with a brunette. And just to your luck, you were one. You knew exactly who he wanted and to what extent and why, because he went through his top ten everyday when he was with you.

He wanted the ones that were pretty and big-breasted, the ones that wore shimmery eye shadow and sparkling lip gloss. Tall, beautiful girls that wore short skirts, girls that giggled at everything, girls that used their most adorable puppy dog expression if denied what they wanted, which was rarely. If ever.

And you were never on that top ten list.

But that didn't matter. (Well, not so much.) You were the one he called when he couldn't fall asleep. You were the one he asked when he was stuck on homework. You were the one he went on sporty events with.

You were willing to be patient, to change. You started to paint your nails, to apply lip gloss almost every single minute of the day. You started to wear more expensive brands, Hollister instead of Macy's.

{Of course}, your friends didn't get it, they didn't get him, but you did, and that made everything worth it. Things like waking up two hours early to take a shower and apply mascara, eyeliner, eyeshadow and other products. Things like counting your calories or blowing your money on expensive perfume. Things like reading Seventeen, Teen Vogue and CosmoGirl every single time a new edition came out.

You watched his movies with him, and agreed with him that yes, he was braver than James Bond, and yes, he was better than Indiana Jones. You giggled at his bad, not-even-funny jokes, and "cared" whether the Red Sox beat the Yankees or not. You didn't care that his emails were pointless and un-important, because the important thing was that he kept on sending them.

You told yourself not to expect anything to happen. But whatever the case, you could still hope.

One night, he called. He chattered on and on about the upcoming dance. You wished that he would ask you. You wished, you wished during the whole conversation. But then he hung up, and the next day, he asked someone else. That someone else said yes. And a little part of you died.

That night, at the dance, he danced with girls while you watched from the sidelines. He flirted, while you gazed with envy. He approached you, grinning. Your heart rate sped up, he was going to ask you to dance with him! Should you play it cool, should you eagerly say yes and giggle? But he doesn't ask you to dance. Instead he asks you which pick up line is the best. You ask which girl he wants. He points towards a beautiful girl drinking juice in the corner.

{Of course.} You should have known. That girl was always number one on his list. Always. Perfect shiny blonde hair, perfect sparkling blue eyes, perfect glossy lips, perfect cute little giggles, perfect soothing voice, perfect fashionable clothes, perfect long tan legs. Her parents should have named her Perfect.

He walks over to her and they start to dance. He kisses her and she kisses back. And then you die inside. Your heart shatters.

{Of course.}

And then it's their wedding. You didn't want to come, but you were invited. You stand in the back corner. You should feel happy. Happy for him, your best friend. Happy for her, his true love. But you don't. You want to die.

She floats down the aisle, in her white dress. They exchange vows, and they kiss. Husband and wife. And you feel like you're being dragged across a bed of razors.

Shane Grey and Tess Tyler, married and happily ever after.

You should've known from the start.

And so that night, you pull the trigger.

{Of Course.}