Your footsteps whisper. You fade into the background, your soul patterned with gray roses that fade into the bland wallpaper behind you. They're the wrong flower for a Lily, but you've always liked them better. They're cliché, ordinary, and everyone loves them. Maybe that'll be you, someday.

You speak, occasionally. Not so much anymore. The words always come out twisted and people laugh or stare or sigh and you don't understand where you went wrong, but even you can tell that you did. So you smile and sit and as long as you're still, you seem almost normal.

If only you were a rose, you think. Bland. A quick smile (that only comes out at just the right times). An even quicker wit (that's never accidentally insulting). Quick to love (a perfect boyfriend and oh how you watch and wish and waste away because he is perfect and he fits oh-so-perfectly with her but you can't get his slow grin and gray eyes out of your messy little head).

Sometimes your arm gets away from you and reaches out to feel the softness of his sweater, but you know that's not appropriate so you snatch it back so hastily that all he sees is a twitch. Sometimes words flood your mouth (iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou) and you swallow them so fast that all anyone hears is a strangled groan.

He gives you the same odd looks everyone does, pity woven through his beautiful smile. You think it would be better to be invisible than to see that tired expression every time he notices you. Tread softly.

He could never love someone like you.