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It’s almost funny, in a sad kind of way.
You have followed a boy you like into a play, a musical you pretended not to like because of him in the first place. And you’ve followed him because he’s following someone else. A girl, Nini. Someone he actually sees the way you see him.
Before this, before Nini, there was a time you thought he might like you back. Sometimes he’d look at you just for the sake of it, smile like your existence is enough reason for happiness, and you would dare hope for something more. To think of it now pains you as you realize how foolish you’ve been. His eyes don’t light up at the mention of your name, not the way they do with hers, and his smile for you is nothing like his smile for her.
You wonder occasionally if love is something you were made for. Maybe it just doesn’t fit inside your body, maybe you’re cursed to forever pine for someone who will never like you back. You crave, and you crave, and you crave, and he throws you leftovers that you treat like feasts.
You can’t even hate her for having his affection, can’t even resent her for not realizing how precious it is. Because she’s sweet, and she’s kind, and she loves him just as much, even after he hurt her, and how are you supposed to hate someone who makes him so so happy?
So you stand aside and try to be happy for him when they get together, you hide the hopefulness that their breakup brings you, because what kind of friend does that make you? You should not be happy over such a thing, you think, maybe you’re just a terrible person.
He still talks about her all the time, she’s still at the very center of his narrative as you watch from the sidelines, but she’s leaving, slowly, and you’re stepping back in. He’s decided it’s Time to move on, he tells you one day, and you question him about it, not wanting to gain some false hope, but he seems determined to find himself like she found herself, and he’s inviting you to be part of the journey, and how could you not be happy?
He goes to homecoming with you, teaches you to dance in his basement as you both laugh over you complete lack of ability for coordination. You slow dance then, too, awkwardly and stiffly, hyper aware of how close to him you are, how if you turn your face just the right way you could-
But it doesn’t matter. You’ve long since realized he’ll never see you the way you wish he did, long since buried your feelings. It doesn’t matter because as soon as another pretty girl talks to him at the dance, he’s leaving with her, even if he was insulting her before, even if it’s your car he’s taking.
He’s always doing that. Leaving. Leaving with your car, and leaving with your heart, and you are cursed to always follow one step behind.