• Here I am again, perhaps the third time this week; I've lost count, or rather stopped caring. Why pester myself with that? I could sigh, but it wouldn't matter, he wouldn't hear me or bother to look up. He'll pay attention to me when he wants to, other than that I'm left to entertain myself. Go ahead, ask me how I am, I dare you to. Of course I'll tell you I'm fine or I'm okay or fill you in on some insignificant fact about my day that's been nothing short of redundant. He doesn't really care. I can see it on his face; in his eyes. I can hear it in his voice; like an empathetic recording; like he feels as though he has to ask. God, I wish he could see through me. I want to tell him about my past and what's really on my mind, I want him to want to know, maybe some other time, in another place, but there are too many people around right now.

    The worst part is that I never expected this. I never expected his stupid and charming smile to become a highlight of my day. Our first meeting was casual. He had lots of girls following him around; giggling at everything he said in hopes that they would be accepted. Was he one of those guys? Our first words were nothing amazing. He just asked me my name and I told him. Yet I was drawn to him. I'm drawn to friendly people. He wasn't who I thought he was, and I'm damn glad he proved me wrong. I want him to come over here and touch me; he's always gentle when he does. He's wearing his ripped jeans again. I love those on him, and the way he stretches out when he's laying on the floor, one arm resting behind his head with the other across his stomach, no tension in his hands, his legs relaxed; one bent up and the other extended out, the fabric of his shirt hiding his pale and freckled flesh from me, it's inviting. There's a subtle sexy confidence about him. It's frustrating, yet I can't stay mad at him. I need to stop this.

    It's hard when he looks me in the eyes to talk. I think his are blue, or perhaps gray. All those times I was looking for emotion instead of the eye color. Secretly, I hoped he was doing the same. I've learned not to get excited, and just discard his sweet words. It doesn't matter how many times he's called me pretty or adorable, I think he might have thrown in beautiful once, or maybe he said I was attractive, there just words. It doesn't matter how many deep conversations we've had or the fact that there's a strong mutual trust between us. I don't think I've ever trusted a guy as much as I trust him. It doesn't matter that when he strokes the bare skin on my arm or smooth surface of my leg that was recently shaven just for him that a zealous sensation pulses through my body, my heart can be heard in my ear, goose bumps naturally follow as his warm hand leaves. It doesn't matter that when he hugs me I feel protected and like I belong; like a perfect fit. I love his hugs. They're long and he'll sway me around sometimes, or fall into my body. I'll tell him to get off. I don't want him to, but I have to. I've told him he's amazing, he's smart, funny, creative, but those words don't do justice to how I really feel. I don't think he even caught on to the real meaning those words hold coming from me, or maybe he doesn't care; he doesn't want me.

    So I'll suppress these feelings. I always have, I probably always will. For the first time in my life the thought of love came to mind when he did. Love. He's in love, but not with me. I see how he looks at her; it's the same way I look at him. They've been off and on but it's more complicated than that. She always wants him back and he always gives in. Is it pathetic? I don't want to think he's pathetic. If anything I'm pathetic, and weak. He's turning around, I guess it time to smile, and maybe I'll even laugh if he makes a joke, or even give that sigh a try. He won't care, and maybe I shouldn't. I'm good at hiding my feelings anyway.

    They're blue-gray. Go figure.