You'll always fake a friendly smile when her hand brushes against yours, but, God, you think you might fall apart if she encases you in her arms again. She reminds you so much of the baby bird you rescued when you were seven; small and frail, abandoned by its parents and so scrawny its feathers hung off its frame. You tell yourself you need to save this golden girl whose eyes light up when she sees you and whose hair smells like strawberry shampoo. You tell yourself the reason she paints with such intensity is because she's painting new universes for you two to exist in together, but when you look up at the moon at night you count the stars to remind yourself that the chance you've seen all the stars in the world is as small as the chance that Maya Hart loves you back.
(Sometimes you stay awake to stare at the night sky for hours when it's clear, walking around the block to get a better view. You've lost count a while ago of how many stars you've seen.)
It's so hard to be in love with someone like Maya, because every waking moment you and her exist in the same galaxy you find your mind wandering to things it shouldn't. Like how you're both fifteen now and if Maya liked you back, people might take your relationship, if you were to be open about it, more seriously. Like how you crave her lips beneath your teeth, like how you want you two to be together just so you can wake up one morning when everything is perfect and forget that the love of your life is sleeping next to you, and to have that warmth you feel everyday for her rush through you when you realize you're with her. You want to pull on her hair and bite her neck and do stupid, annoying Riley things she'd expect out of you because you love her, and she knows that. But… she doesn't know that.
There's not a chance she does, there's not a chance in the world; she would've said something by now if she liked you like that. Because all you talk about is him and all she does is sit there and take it in, her hands tucked into her pockets and her smiling far too wide for her to actually dislike the fact that you're infatuated with him. You were the one who started out disliking Lucas, just pretending to see the world in his eyes, and you did that to see the reaction from your best friend. But time went on and Maya didn't object when you gushed over him, not at all, (and you convince yourself it's not like you wanted her to anyway) so the idea of him became more and more appealing until you wanted to like everything about him. You wanted to like it when Lucas Friar, sweet-talking country boy with dimples like black holes sucking you in, flirted with you. Maya jokes about him, sure, but the jokes don't feel like they're coming from the same place that the envy that swallowed you whole did when her eyes settled on Uncle Josh. The jokes feel lighter than that jealousy, they feel friendly, and teasing… just like a best friend would.
There may not be a chance (and you want to accept that) but sometimes you pretend there is, sometimes you live in one of those days. Those days are when, in your mind, you two are together and you take every gesture Maya makes and exaggerate it to something a lover would do. When she reaches for your hand, you take it and somehow it feels more intimate. When you lean in to hug her, you pretend that her mouth is intentionally hovering against your neck, her breath warm and cinnamon-gum and sliding down your shirt. When you tell her, "I love you", to you there's more meaning in those words than justfriends. You're scared that sometimes she knows when you're doing this; it's pretty obvious because on those days you call her by pet names a lot more. You call her peaches and honey and angel, but you make sure never to say it in a serious situation. You'll throw it in casually, half-hoping she'll notice and you'll run away together the very next minute, half-hoping you can continue living in this hell because if she knows she'll look at you like you're one of those people, and the worst part is she'll have every right to.
So you savor every moment that she's touching you, you savor every moment she's even talking to you. Her voice is your favorite sound and it always has been, but now there's something different about her words. They seem to mean so much more to you, and so you take each individual one that she speaks and stretch it out so that it can run for miles and miles more in your brain before you fall asleep each night. You take sentences that mean nothing to her and the world to you out of context and replay them in your mind constantly, and when they're over you can almost swear you see her ocean-light eyes staring at you from underneath her long lashes. In those moments before you drift off into dreams of her hands your waist her lips your face you imagine that she speaks every word you want to hear but don't with her eyes, and you tell yourself this is as close as you'll come. That it's closer than when the New York sky glows faintly outside your window and you and her are in bed together next to each other with your dreams almost playing out in front of your heavy eyes.
Who needs those damn stars anyway when Maya Hart's breath hums against your skin late at night when she's fallen asleep before you have, and you push yourself every time her eyelids move to dreams (not of you) to get out and look at the sky. Maybe, you think to yourself as you sneak a glance back and see her, entangled in your sheets, all limbs and blonde curls and eyes that are still as pretty when closed, just maybe the night sky rotates every now and then so you've seen more stars than you think.