Disclaimer: I own nothing like Glee or even anything cool. I do, however, have a small army of ants invading my apartment, but that's something I don't want and I guess they're actually not even mine. They're just their own little (annoying) creatures.
She's a hard left when you need to veer right. She's a mess in that yellow dress, curls tangling in the wind, makeup smudged and heels in hand, and she's so loud and overbearing with her head thrown back in a fit of joyous laughter. She was the thing that you didn't think would happen. But here she is in all her glory, all of her shining radiance stealing glances at you and smiling like you're the only thing she cares about in this damn world. Yeah, a lot of mistakes were made, mostly on your end, and there were nights where your fists clenched by your sides as you tried to force the tears not to come even though they did anyway. There were times when she stormed out of your apartment, and your phone was silent for some amount of unholy time. But she always came back.
She was good at forgiveness. That was something you learned long ago.
She also likes to shut you up with kisses which is something you don't mind at all. Of course sometimes all you wanted to do was explain something (like how she was being an ass), but it would all end the same anyway. Her lips would press against yours, and you'd lose your hold on the world.
Her eyes are everything you need to anchor you, to keep you balanced, to keep you trekking on even when you've failed once already. Her eyes are home. Her eyes are warm and simmering like melting chocolate, and they fix on you so easily like you were a magnet.
She makes you feel wanted and loved and all of those things you never thought you could feel while you were raining down terror in high school.
Her smile was your favorite kind, and her laugh was your favorite sound.
Sometimes she would come home and taste like a vanilla soy latte, and that was your favorite too. You'd never order one for yourself, but you like the taste of it on her. You like a lot of things on her.
You like a lot of things off her.
The first time she shrugged that awfully fuzzy cardigan off her shoulders revealing bare skin and a dusting of freckles cut across by the thin strap of her tank top, you thought you were going to die. You placed tiny kisses all over the skin you saw, and that night she made you hers more than she could ever be yours.
She was freedom. She was love.
Months had gone by like years, and years had gone by like seconds. She evolved into a star, and you could only stand on the ground and watch as she left a trail across the New York sky.
Of course, she pressured you into trying your own things, and you found relative success in the acting and writing scenes.
But you think nothing can compare to her, all golden and perfect especially beneath the eyeliner and lipgloss.
She was nothing short of miraculous to you, always singing, always loving you despite your obvious flaws and probably her better judgment.
"I love you," she mouths in between interviews, tapping over heart with an elegant finger.
Your heart does the same pitter patter it had since ninth grade. It's almost impossible, but you find yourself loving her a little more.
"I love you," you mouth back.
She throws you a wink and is lost to reporters and mics and cameras recording and flashing. Yeah, to them she's America's Sweetheart, but to you. God. But to you, she is absolutely everything.