He is untouchable. You know that. He is full of an innocence admirable in this age of desensitizing and apathy, and his smile, blinding in its purity, was never meant to shower you and only you with its light; it is and always will be meant for all.

You know this with a gut-wrenching clarity so final in its message that you imagine for a moment you can actually feel the strings keeping you from perfection.

He is merely feet from you, so close you can count his eyelashes (if you hadn't already done so), and yet he might as well be miles away. The distance between your position and his makes you want to laugh and cry all at once. Because it describes your situation perfectly, doesn't it? Lest you stand from your seat, your hand will fall just inches shy of that wild mane. What better way is there to point out what you must already know? He will always be just out of reach.

Your hands clench, and your teeth grind together, but you do not make a sound. You will never voice this frustration, nor will you confess. He does not want to hear your empty words, and he does not want to be burdened by your one-sided love. To you, these emotions might cause you to break, but how is he to know that, among the hundreds of faceless admirers, your heart is genuine?

No, though cliche, you will suffer in silence because nothing, not even this soul-shredding, all-consuming agony that has been gradually building in your chest, can possibly compare to causing him any pain.

You will not say anything, and he will never know. You can cry bitter tears later, when you're alone and no one can see you fall apart. Then, with a heavy heart but a whole heart all the same, you will pick up the pieces and return to the smiling, reliable classmate he knows you to be.

And all will be well.

Your daze is broken quite abruptly by a yawn, and you quickly turn back to your notebook for fear that he will accurately interpret your expression. You hear the rustle of clothing indicating his stretching, and you recognize the thwump his torso makes against the desktop.

You count backwards from ten in the back of your mind just as you have done many times before, and he does not disappoint. You feel a tap on your shoulder, and when you turn to find your (adorable, lovable) sheepish first love looking to you, you feign surprise.

"Yes, Okumura-kun?" Your mouth forms the words without your consent as routine takes over, and he does not miss a beat.

Chuckling slightly, he asks, "...Would you mind filling me in on what I missed? Eheheh..."

A smile has stretched across your features before you are even conscious of it, and as you close your eyes as habit dictates to complete the action, you miss the sudden flush of his cheeks.

"Why, of course, Okumura-kun." At this, he scoots his chair closer to you rather than simply carrying the chair to your location (a childish action you find endearing), and you begin by rearranging your notes into numerical order (merely a show because of course you already had them ready), explaning, "If you look here, we..."

It is painful and possibly maddening, but you will not regret it, any of it.

You could never regret it.

A/N: I wrote this awhile ago for my good friend, Jessica (Rabies Kitten.) I figured I might as well post it. ^w^

[The title is from "Wrecking Ball" by Miley Cyrus; it seemed appropriate.]