Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be you. Maybe I'd find some solace in it; I figure being simple could keep all this pain from ruining me. I find myself getting angrier every day when I walk down those halls. I hear the whispers-they're not about me but I know one way they will be. I see you pushing him down the halls laughing about some stupid joke he said even though you probably don't understand it, and it makes my blood boil under my skin. He doesn't belong with you. I belong with you.
Sometimes when we're in class you look in my direction. I can feel your stare burn holes into the back of my head, but I refuse to turn around. After what I told you, what I confessed to you, I can't meet your eyes anymore. The shame I feel, for loving you? It's deep, and confusing, and it hurts more than I think you can understand. Your love is the simplest thing in my life, and even that is complicated. Artie doesn't understand you. I do.
Needless to say I never imagined that you'd be at my doorstep at 3 in the morning, calling me from your cellphone because you're too scared to knock on the door. When I see your name on my cell it makes cold blood run up my spine.
"I'm outside..." You whisper into the phone. I am on my feet now, walking to the second story window to look out at the yard. There you stand, on the sidewalk, waving to me.
"Hold on a second." I say, and I feel exhilarated and scared shitless at the same time. I run down the stairs barefoot as fast as I've ever run, and I get to the door. There you stand, looking down at your shoes like you're scared to be around me.
"Hi." You say. I roll my eyes and grab your arm, pulling you in.
"Are you crazy? It's Tuesday morning and we have school!" Your eyes bulge a little at the realization, right as your mouth says
"I can't sleep." I sigh to myself, right before I realize that my hands are shaking. "Can we go to your room?" You ask, eyes clear and blue, fingers fiddling with the drawstring on your hoodie. I close my eyes for a brief second, trying to take a picture of this moment with my mind.
"Yeah. Come on." I whisper.
You stand in my room like you've never been there before. You look at me expectantly, and I just stare back.
"What do you want to tell me, Brittany." I say tiredly, my hand running over my face. "Do you still love me?" you ask with a hint of sad inflection.
"Nothing has changed." I say cryptically. Your brow knits for a second, and then you touch my hastily made pony tail with gentle hands.
"I like it when it's down." You say. I cover your hand with mine, and put it between us. I'm not comfortable with the touching anymore. Not since... that day.
"I'm sorry, Brittany. I'm tired." My voice is tinted with anger, and you notice.
"I don't know what to do, Santana." You're begging now. "Please Santana, tell me what to do!" I see your beautiful eyes become bleary with tears, and my heart hurts, but I say and do nothing. You begin to sob, and I hold your hands and take you to my bed. You sniffle, looking up at me expectantly, but I just shake my head. I can't have sex with you anymore. It would only turn out to be one sided love making. You wipe your face, begging me with your eyes to let you touch and be touched.
"I can't, Brittany." I mumble, my lips quivering from the sight of her distress. I will myself not to cry. I can't, I'm stronger than that. She holds my face and kisses me, and I let her. It's soft, and searching, and while I relent to her kiss, I also hold myself back. She leans back, looking into my eyes with confusion.
"Why is it not the same?" You ask, bleary eyed.
"Because I love you." I whisper. A warm tear runs down my cheek, and you kiss it away. He doesn't love you. I do.
You begin to kiss my neck, hands running up the thighs of my bed shorts. I don't stop you. I'm not capable of it. You touch me like I'm porcelain, slow, methodical, and you are in control. I've never in my life let anyone be in control like this. Gently you pull off my sleeping shirt, kissing at my breasts and running your short nails down my back. I keen and bend to your touches. Like a candle you light my skin on fire, burning at every touch. He doesn't want you like this. I do.
With your fingers, I begin to shudder. You're inside me now, slowly stroking the flames of my desire with your fingers, beckoning me to feel the touch, not love. I'm not fooled for a minute.
"I'm sorry." You cry as I reach release. "I'm so sorry." I feel your tears hit my stomach and roll down my abdomen. I try to be hard, uncaring. I stare at you with a practiced blank stare.
"You have to go, Brittany." Your eyes open with shock, but I watch as the understanding paints your facial expression. You are complacent. You have realized what you've done to me. You stand, your hands suddenly in your hoodie's pockets.
"I'll see you at school tomorrow." You say absently, and then you head to my door, and, quietly as a mouse, disappear into the dark streets of suburbia. I adjust my clothes, and walk to the front door to lock it behind you. Nobody notices, nobody cares.
He doesn't need you. I do.