Author's Note: This is a piece I wrote quite a while ago, and I only just found it on my computer. It is intended as a one-shot deal, no more, no less. The timeframe is sometime after Tristan leaves for military school, probably several years later, and he reflects back on his time at Chilton.
Sophomore year had begun like any other autumn that had students reluctantly leaving the seemingly never-ending summer behind to return to prowling the black and white tiles of Chilton's halls. Back to the torturous grind of homework, projects, and the obligatory three or four tests a week. Back to the continuous stream of gossip and parties. He joined his classmates there, of course. They were the same classmates he had known since grade school, and they tended to express the same level of maturity as they did when eating glue and having food fights were considered normal behavior. Laughing and joking with so-called buddies, those who would turn and stab you in the back if given the opportunity, were actions often prevalent. Actions that were easily and frivolously hidden by well-practiced, fake smiles.
He had everything that anyone could ever want. He came from one of the wealthiest, most prestigious families. The guys wanted to be him and all of the girls wanted to be with him. It had always been that way, and he had tended to revel in that attention. He was the object of every girl's fantasy and every guy's jealousy. Everyone at Chilton knew him, and if they didn't, then they certainly knew of him. Rumors always did have a way of circulating quickly through the throng, gobbled up eagerly by those needing to blab the latest "news." More often than not, he was the center of that news.
So, yes, all of his fellow classmates knew him - the physical part of him. The intentionally tousled, golden blond hair, the sparkling blue eyes that could have girls swooning at his feet with a simple flicker of a gaze. When anyone looked at him, that's undoubtedly what they saw. That was all they cared about. And that was why even he had admitted to himself that these people, with their overwhelming need to always be better or belittle anyone who they deemed unworthy of a glance, could ever possibly really know him. They didn't take the time to find out what made him tick or to try and understand the enigma of which they so frequently gossiped. And they certainly didn't make him question everything that he had been and what he had become. No one had permission to do that but her. When he did take a good look at himself, he realized he was just like them, and for the first time, he wasn't quite proud of it. Because of her.
Worries about finding dates had never been a problem for him. The girls had come to him willingly, and he had just as easily accepted them, then when he grew tired and bored, casting them aside without a care for their feelings. They had known what they were getting into, so they shouldn't have expected a long-term commitment, especially not from someone like him. Not when there was always someone more interesting waiting. It had always been a game to him. He had his pick of any girl at Chilton, so why settle for just one? He had adapted this game to fit his standards and for those girls to play by his rules. And it worked well. Almost too well to the point where you just know those rules are bound to unravel eventually.
And those rules didn't just unravel - they broke in an entirely unexpected way.
That day still rang inexplicably true in his mind. The day she first walked into his life. He had sauntered into class, late as usual, books tucked casually under his jacketed arm, stance dripping with streams of unparalleled confidence. Then out of the corner of his eye, he had seen her. She had sat at her desk, legs crossed demurely with her pencil poised in her hand. She had been someone new, someone different to stir up some amusement and entertainment in the otherwise mundane Chilton existence. He had brushed by her, sending a trademark flirtatious glance her way, but she hadn't even looked up. He had cornered her in the hallway later, relishing in the way her eyes seemed to flit everywhere but in his direction and the way the rosy blush flared up her cheeks at his thinly veiled innuendos. All of these things inadvertently portrayed her innocence. He supposed that had been what had drawn him to her at first. The innocent, untouchable vibes that radiated out from her were to him like a hungry feline teased with dangling catnip. She was something he had to have, a trophy of a contest won to parade in front of his friends. To prove to them he could have anyone he wanted with just the snap of a finger. She had been nothing more, nothing less. He refused to accept the other possibility that, even from that first day, he had been truly attracted to her.
He had long ago passed that stage of denial, falling into something even deeper.
He had repeatedly told himself she was no different from those other girls, the high-maintenance, fluffy ones who wouldn't know one famous writer from another unless they suddenly invented a new make-up brand. She was just another piece in his well-played game. Leave it to her to prove him wrong. For the first time, someone matched him wit for wit. Whatever leering or sarcastic remark he dished out, she threw it right back, her words smacking him in the face, often more creative and articulate than his own. And damn it, that intrigued him. He found himself engaging her in these daily verbal sparring matches, wondering what quip she would treat him to that day. She challenged him like no one else. That's when he realized he looked forward to just seeing her, and the fire that his words sparked in those blue eyes.
There was no denying that he found her incredibly beautiful. Such a fresh, sweet, innocent, and so very untouchable beauty. Because she had a boyfriend. And despite all of those things, he found himself falling flat on his face and not in the literal sense. This wasn't supposed to happen to him. He wasn't the kind of guy to let himself be consumed with thoughts of one girl. A girl, who he knew, without a doubt, couldn't stand him. He had tried to act like it didn't exist - that these foreign, unfamiliar feelings were a fluke. He eventually had to dismiss that theory when it proved irreversibly wrong. What exactly had been the moment that ripped him from his steady cliff of denial and had him spiraling off the precipice into a haze that consisted of only her? It was almost impossible for him to pinpoint, but he had a feeling that it was more than likely all of the little, unique, endearing characteristics that made her who she was. The characteristics that set her apart from all of those other girls.
The kiss that night at the party. Certainly not his first, but it was technically a "first" in many ways. It was the first one that had ever mattered. She was the only one who had ever meant anything, and she had run away, leaving him sitting mystified in a sea of confusion and feelings he didn't even want to attempt to decipher.
They had overcome that, of course, chalking it up to a bad night. He had put on the convenient mask of indifference, desperately trying to not give away his true feelings towards her and what had happened that night. When they had talked in Chilton's courtyard, tucked away on a quiet bench, he thought that she might actually be willing to give him a chance and telling himself that he would even manage to settle for a friendship if it meant he would be on the receiving end of that gorgeous, heart stopping smile. Except she didn't understand. He couldn't bring himself to consider the possibility that she simply didn't want to.
And why in the hell did he care so damn much? He had asked himself this question countless times over the past several years, not knowing a concrete answer. But, here he was, spending yet another sleepless night consumed by thoughts of her.
Dim moonlight filtered through the blinds, casting a horizontal pattern of dancing yellow across his sheets. Groaning, he rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, praying sleep would relieve him of this endless torture. But when he closed his eyes, he knew he would see her face.
The only face that mattered.
He couldn't comprehend why he would put himself through this, day after day. Most guys would have forgotten about a girl they had left behind as soon as another entered their field of vision. But he was different now. Because of her.
He knew he would probably never see her again. Would never hear her speak his name in the way only she could. Would never hold her hand or be the one to make her smile. She would never be his.
His exhausted mind finally succumbed to what he considered the blissful unawareness of sleep, where there is no reality, and life deviates from the truth. For him, this is a love once shared.
The reality would always be a life without her, and one love alone.