Author's note: I know that writing in the second person is kind of uncommon, but I've been studying for a big huge English exam and I keep coming across my second person narrative notecard, and so this started nagging me.
plus, you know the drill... Wicked not mine.
x--x--x--x--x--x
In your weaker moments, when you're too exhausted to stop yourself, you let yourself imagine. Sometimes you even catch yourself in those in-between moments, when there is no such excuse to be found—you were so involved in your book, how did that thought creep in? His fingers in your hair, his smile aimed at you and only you, his hand linked with yours, or perhaps even an arm thrown casually around your waist.
And every time you see such things in your mind's eye, you wish you hadn't. It always ends with an effort to fight back tears, once you come back to your senses.
You catch yourself, once again, and a grim, bitter excuse for a smile crosses you lips when you think that it would be so wonderful to not have to catch yourself, not have to drag yourself back to the painful reality of no one. It would be so incredibly blissful to be remembering instead of dreaming.
Sometimes, only at your very lowest, you just let yourself go, though, because even that daydream, the one where he has a hand on your back and another tangled in your hair, pulling you to him to kiss you, because he wants to kiss you—it's just so indescribably fantastic that even though you feel physical pain when you wake yourself up, that brief glimmer of happiness is almost worth it.
Almost.
Once, he caught you. You'd been at the library for hours, trying to forget (even more than you were trying to remember) and you'd vaguely wondered what it would be like to have his gentle fingers mapping your face. He'd sat down next you before you'd realized that he was even in the same room and—much to your mortification—had asked what you were thinking. Your subsequent blush and incoherent response had resulted in what he surely must have thought of as "harmless" teasing, but was in fact far too accurate in all its fun for your comfort. He'd been bewildered when you refused to look at him for days afterward. If only he knew.
You never let yourself imagine anything beyond that kiss—it's hard enough pulling back to reality after that vision, and you theorize that trying to escape the idea of his bare skin against yours would surely destroy you, and besides, you barely know how to imagine such things.
So you pretend to not care or notice as you watch him kiss your best friend, and you tell yourself that it's impossible to miss something you never had anyway.