She didn't call before she came. She never did. She would sneak out of her room, her face flushed and her hair in a messy ponytail, and walk across the blocks between their houses, her slippers barely thumping the pavement as she watched her shadow.
She was paranoid. Halfway to his house, she'd habitually turn around just to check, since what do you know, her light may be on or somebody moving or someone coming to take her home again. And always she had to force herself to think of him and the way it felt when he hugged her and held her close.
He was never surprised. He always kept the door unlocked, waiting for her to come. He never had anybody there with him. He always loved hearing her sigh.
She always walked faster under the lights. And then she would start to open the door, and his ears would register her tiny voice calling his name. She would sometimes be out of breath, and he would always look up into her eyes to see her. Because she made him feel like himself. She had this way about her, that not only made him want to put her to bed (in a completely non-sexual way, of course) and lock the door and watch her sleep in his arms. Sometimes he did.
Other times she would be angry, and just grip his hands and lie on top of him until he pulled her close and whispered into her ear. And, whimpering, she would want him to stop and he would, pulling her in to kiss her.
They needed each other. At times she was his little sister, and he protected her. But he needed her warmth, he needed her to see who he could be.
She was messed up. Her best friend, his girlfriend. This was nothing. By day they were friends. They were always friends. Only friends.
She was killing herself inside, she wanted to lose herself in him and his perfectly messy curly hair and just be one person. She smiled, spreading light when they were alone. He would play with her hair, and tell her she's beautiful until the clock tells her that her mom's going to be awake. And she goes home, sneaking back in and messing up her bed so it looks like she's slept. And she rubs her eyes and is totally thankful he's her best friend.
It's never anything more. They hardly talk at school in front of people. She never talks anyway. Never to him. Actions speak louder than words, she would say, if she did talk, which defeated the purpose anyway.
Sometimes he would sing to her, and she would sit in his lap, straddling him, and stroke his hair. He would get frustrated, want to see her sleep and hear her constant breathing.
She made him breathe. Not only that, she made him lose his breath. When she had called him that night and swallowed those pills, he had sat with her and held her hair away from her face as she threw them all up again. But he felt no love with her. Not for the actual her. He loved the idea of her, just a girl he can protect and hug forever.
She likes the way it feels when he talks to her about his friends. She likes it when he plays guitar. She likes it when he rubs her back. She hates him when he makes her sleep. She hates him when he walks right by her at school. She hates him when he asks her how her dad is.
He wasn't supposed to come with her. He was only supposed to see her mom and her brother, and the man she is forced to call Dad but he will never admit that she loves it. This is my family, she tells him.
No, it's not. I met your dad, he reminds her. She feels like killing him, but what then could happen? She would have nobody. She hates being alone.
She hates who she is, but loves who they think she is.
She hates him, but loves the way he kisses her and the way he makes her melt. No, she hates that too, but he makes her love it and she can't stop. Stop it, she tells herself. Stop it, she tell him.
All she wants is to go, because inside she knows she is falling in love with him and she can't do that. He'll never love you, she tells herself. No. You mustn't.
Hush, he tell her, even though she's halfway asleep and maybe sleep will her think straight. Leave now, she tells herself.
But she's trapped. Needs to leave, trapped. Need to leave, trapped.
He wants her here, even though he can tell from her light breathing that this is not a night where he can just guard her and run his fingers through her lovely blonde hair, and he can tell that he has to let her go sometime. But that time's not now.
She is his angel. Even though she will totally never be his and maybe someday she will come and visit him when they are grown and lay beside him. Maybe sometime in 20 years or maybe it will take him till they are 80, and he will tell her stories about the girl she was and stroke her hair even if it's not blonde anymore, tell her about his kids and how much Craig Manning still loved his Em. Even if she was still silent, because he knew how much actions spoke louder than words.
The line ["want to put her to bed (in a completely non-sexual way, of course) "] is taken from somebody's fic, but it totally fit in and I needed to take it. Sorry. I'm pretty sure it's from Numb by PsYcHoJo, but if not, I give the author total credit.
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