A/N: I wrote this a few weeks ago, based on a personal experience. These events didn't actually happen, but I did write this with a certain person as the main character. I simply adapted this to Twilight fanfiction, and that was that.

This is from Jacob's point of view, this is an alternate reality, etc. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any of the characters, but these words are my own.

The bell rang at 11:35, just as it always did, and I knew she would be waiting for me, just like she always did. I wasn't supposed to think anything of it. She's told me so many times that she loves me as a friend, or a little brother, and anything more would be too weird for her. But it would be just fine for me.

She could never know that, though.

And there she was with one of her friends: smiling, laughing, chatting; just being herself, which was always enough to take my breath away. Her dark, brown hair flowed down to her mid-back, I liked it better when it was down; her soft, chocolate brown eyes were dancing with joy, with life, and it radiated from every part of her, but especially those eyes. Everything about her was simply perfection, from her obvious physical beauty to her kindness, her heart, her good-nature soul.

There was no one more spectacular than her.

She saw me then, giving me her warm, heart-breaking smile. Her top lip was just a bit too full to match the bottom perfectly, reminding me that somehow this angel was in fact human. We began to walk together, falling into a comfortable rhythm of casual small talk and subtle flirting from me. I wish I could say that she was into me like I was into her, but she acted like this around everyone.

I was no exception, no matter how I felt.

I walked her to our lunch table, then she walked me into the line. She always liked to finish our conversation before settling herself into her packed lunch; just one of the many actions she does to show that she cares. I watch her walk back to the table, tripping over her feet as usual, ignoring the shove that I received from the person behind me. The line wastes my time with her before –

He gets there.

He always monopolizes her time, taking her away from me. I can't stand it. As he sets his books down beside her brown paper bag, she looks up, her face sparkling. I wish I could make her look like that at me. He kisses her, knowing that I'm watching them. I wish I could press my lips to hers. She waves goodbye as he walks into his own line. He glares at me as I pass him to go sit down, because he thinks he knows everything. He knows that I want her, even though she's his. What he doesn't know, though, is how I really feel about her. He doesn't know that it goes so much deeper than what he thinks.

Of course nobody knows about that.

She smiles at me as I sit, but it is not as bright as when she saw him. I don't understand why she stays with him. I've heard so many stories about their fights, about their never-ending disagreements. He's made her cry so many times – I would never make her cry – but she keeps crawling back to him, almost like she's begging to be hurt again.

I can't stand to see her suffer.

They fight about me – a lot. She doesn't have to tell me; I can see it from the way she looks from him to me, and back again. He doesn't like me. He hates me, actually; he can't stand to be around me. But she defends me, which I don't deserve. Everything that he has said about me is true, but it wouldn't happen with her. Yeah, I've fucked up, big time, but if I ever had the chance, I would treat her right. There would be no mistakes when it came to her.

Unlike him, who has already made a handful.

She has her suspicions that I feel more for her than I should, than I tell her. I don't want her to know the truth though, even though she has a right to know. She would feel terribly, and I can't hurt her, so I lie: I tell her that she's too old for me, that I treat a lot of girls like I treat her. But age doesn't matter, especially not two years, and I've never treated any other girl like I've treated her. She deserves to be placed up on a pedestal, away from all pain and harm. But I have to tell her, so I pull out a sheet of paper and scratch onto the back of it with a pencil, in my neatest hand-writing:

I'm sorry I lied about this before, but I love you.

I passed it in her direction just as he returns. She reads it, looks at me with hurt deep in her eyes, then looks at him and whispers in his ear. My friends are trying to talk to me, but I can't pay any attention to them. I want to hear their whispers, and I want to know why she hasn't said anything to me. Suddenly she stands up, gathers her things, and moves to an empty lunch table. He gets up as well, as she refuses to look at me, and drops a note on top of my books, which I open and read:

She trusted you; she thought you were different. Leave her the fuck alone. She doesn't want to speak to you ever again.

And just like that she was gone.

A/N: And there you go. Just a little angst-y one-shot because ... well, I felt like it. Please review, favorite, whatever you want to do.

And check out my other stories, if you'd like to read more of my work. Yay for shameless self-advertising!