He's always enjoyed writing. It's been a kind of escape for him, to depart from the considerably unfortunate series of circumstances that has become his life. He breathes life into words across his computer screen. If he is an artist, then pretentious words are his paintbrush across a canvas that is only his own. It is this accustom to how a plot could go, how every tiny observation could truly be fundamental to the inner workings of the real world, that he had become such an admirable journalist for Riverdale High's one and only Blue and Gold. He understood so much about everything and everyone. He knew that Cheryl Blossom, the red-headed uncrowned royalty of Riverdale's locale, was as much a victim as her brother was in this twisted plot that had taken hold of Riverdale's townspeople. He knew that Archie Andrews was still upset, despite his hiding of it, that his previous tutor-cross-love affair Miss Geraldine Grundy had to relocate to avoid a prison sentence. One thing he didn't know, was the enigma that seemed to be the likes of butterscotch blonde Elizabeth Cooper.
It wasn't that he didn't know, per sey; it was more that he didn't understand. When he thought of Betty, he thought vanilla milkshake. Tainted pink cheeks and reddened nose in the coldest of winters. He thought the smell of a new book. Gum drops and indie films and the Beatles. When it's the middle of summer yet somehow he's got a shiver down his spine when her skin brushes against his, ever so slightly, as she reviews his article before congratulating him on another job well done because "you've finally learned to write without the use of little quips about the subject matter" and she cocks her head to the side while she smiles genuinely in that cute way that only Betty does. It's that part that he doesn't understand. Why is it that Betty Cooper can affect him so? Touching his heart and crawling her way into his mind in the same casual way one might think about the weather. In the way, where, every morning he wakes up and wonders, "I wonder what Betty's doing right now," or, "Is Betty thinking about me, too?"
He had wondered, perhaps, that this is what everyone had meant when they talked of an infatuation. A desire. Those words didn't feel right in his mouth, they didn't feel faithful to everything he felt. Feelings. That's what they were. The concept wasn't quite alien to him, however it did remain reserved among certain circles of people. His younger sister, Jellybean, for one. Never once had that idea branched into other people who weren't in his family. Of course, there were people he liked more than others, but he's tried to detach himself from any sentiment regarding them. Attachment. Too Complicated.
But now, with Betty, he feels completely limitless. Like every word has the capability to be poetry. A fire set alight in his chest that he can't put out, and besides, he isn't sure if he wants to. He could get used to this, he's sure. He kind of likes the emersion. The drowning in euphoria.
Then Monday comes along, and suddenly everything feels different. The air feels thicker, every small gesture. Eye contact. It all feels so emotive and intense. He wants nothing more than to be able to reach out to her, where she stands a mere foot away. Pull her into his arms and hug her. She's just the right height, the top of her head reaching the bottom of his chin. She could tuck her head beneath his. He doesn't pull her into a hug though. That would be much too unwarranted, and besides (he realises with a sudden jolt) Betty loves Archie.
Suddenly, drowning doesn't seem so pleasant.
He's suffocating under the weight of his own heavy heart as she sees the way Betty looks at Archie and will forever look at Archie. Like he's the moon and she's Van Gogh painting 'Starry Night'. And all that he is, is nothing more than her partner at the Blue and Gold.
author's note: i meant to post this like three weeks ago but i forgot about it lol