I see him everyday. And everyday I imagine what I want to say to him. The words form easily in my brain, but it is impossible to articulate them. I can't talk to him. Well, I can talk to him as far as appearances go, we joke, argue and rile each other and our banter makes everyone assume that we are good friends, that we know each other well. And I like to think that I know him, but he doesn't know me. No one does.
There's always been a problem, the me they see isn't the one I know. The outwardly confident persona hides a shy individual. No one would believe it – I'm intelligent, a genius, not bad looking, and yet, yet, I haven't got the confidence to start a conversation with some one I like. Instead, I wait for them to take the lead, or failing that, rely on humour to hide behind. He smiles at me, I smile back but the words won't come.
When I look at him, I feel different, when he smiles, something twists inside me. But when I try and speak to him, only everyday platitudes come out. And I know that if I tried to tell him more, he'd turn away before I could get the first stumbling sentences out of my mouth. It's happened before, with others, so I stay behind my shield.
Occasionally on a mission, he'll spot me looking at him, and he'll grin. I'll try to grin back, but usually something ridiculous happens. Something to discourage him from approaching me further. A sensible conversation that in my head could easily become a sharing of feelings, instead through my own fault turns into a technical discussion, and it is only when I look back that I realise the change originated with me. A word of encouragement from him is all I need to believe I can do the impossible. But he doesn't realise, he thinks I have faith in myself, and I let him believe. I can't let him know that it's all down to him, because if I do, he won't need me anymore, he could replace me with someone else, and then I would have nothing.
I see him with Carson. Together, happy, open with each other. They don't need to finish sentences sometimes, they each know what the other means and I dream of someone knowing me well enough to do the same. They touch each other, casually, probably not even noticing that they do it. But I notice. And I imagine that his hands are on me. That it is me he is smiling and joking with. As Carson's hand brushes the hair from his forehead, I imagine running my hand though it, already I know it, I know his response. But I will never experience it for real. I yearn for their touch, it's beyond sexual now, I merely want a hand laid on mine, an arm around my shoulder, the feel of the broad muscular chest at my back as arms surround me. But it will never be. Because they have each other. And they don't need me.