-Disclaimer: I own absolutely nada.
-A/N: This is actually a re-post of something I wrote awhile ago. But I figured it was a nice opposite of AIL and WILAY, so it deserves to be back up and running. I hope you like it and I hope it isn't too confusing. And I hope it doesn't get taken down because of the included quote!
What nourishes me, also destroys me. –Japanese Proverb
Mum says that when you fall in love, it feels like a symphony. Heaven. Floating on a cloud. So consumed with your bliss and your surprise and your ecstasy that you could just die at that moment and be perfectly fine.
Mum says that when I fall in love, I'll know. Because somehow, I'll know that he was meant for me, that he was the one I'd been searching for all along, the one that would sweep me off my feet and carry me off into the blazing sunset.
But Mum never told me what I'm supposed to do if Mr. Right doesn't even know I exist. She never told me how to deal with the sheer agony of unrequited love, the pain of caring from someone behind the shadows, of tumbling head over heels and flat on your fucking face, with no one to catch you but the wind.
No one ever advised me, no one ever warned me and I've found myself, time and time again, wondering if this fucking ridiculous thing labeled "love" is really worth the effort. I burn holes like flaming cigarettes into the back of his crinkled shirt, but he never seems to notice. It's like I'm invisible. It's like I'm wallpaper.
Background noise.
And he's so beautiful, in a unconventional way, and I'm this gawky, too tall, half-crazed, pathetic loser, starving for his attention, needing to feed my constant desire to feel loved….He's got eyes that can deceive and I just know lies are sealed behind those ruby lips.
But I'd rather believe the best and maybe it's my foolish optimism that always kills me in the end. Who am I? Who am I, to him? I've known him for so long, yet we barely talk. And then I can only ask myself, how can you love someone you hardly know?
But I do, I know I do. I can't shake this feeling. I can't push his image out of my head; I can't stop thinking about what it would be like to have his arm around my waist, the way he does with her. They're always holding hands, exchanging kisses….
And every time I witness this display of public affection, I nearly puke out my insides. It makes me want to sprint to the nearest trash can and heave and vomit and spew my brains out, until there is absolutely nothing left.
But I have to bite my lip and smile, airily laughing at their behavior, engaging in the usual teasing and banter from the rest of our friends. It is a twisted ritual of self-preservation, an attempt to cover up my true emotions and thoughts.
Fuck, it was just my luck that out of all the guys in the world, I'd gone and fallen for him. Love….love wouldn't save me. Love would tear me apart, literally rip out my insides until all that would remain was my pitifully beating heart.
Right, if that still worked. What is a girl supposed to do when your soul mate only views you as the one with the goofy smile so big it might fall off her face? Because love is all about acting and pretending and making the other person ignore the fact that the power of their fingers against your cheek could shatter your apathetic façade.
Stupid Angelina…stupid, stupid Angie…
It's no surprise I've put myself into this position, no pun intended. His skin is unnaturally smooth, didn't expect it to feel this way…and his eyes are trapped behind their heavy lids, as his mouth aggressively collides with my collar bone…something that turned into two seconds of a quick fix, a quick fuck, has transformed into something more. Something I don't dare attempt to comprehend, to discover the genuine significance.
His breath is warm like a humid summer's night and for some odd reason, I can sense my heart beating faster, beating out of control. Wait…wasn't that supposed to be the other way around? Since when did Angelina Johnson turn into babbling mush at velvet blue eyes and ginger locks and scripted lines?
But I've stumbled and I can't get up and I love every minute of it. Love. No, it can't be love. Just can't. Fuck, what's going on? His body is bloody amazing…chiseled in all the right places…seduction on legs. And I thought this would be easy. I should have known that nothing is ever easy when emotions are involved.
He whispers something in my ear and my hand battles my way to his hair, my fingers lost and tangled in endless amounts of ginger, tangled like our legs as they make a pattern of cream and mocha. This could have been so much easier…so much easier if…
"I want you," he says.
And I am a puppet, a puppet on a string, obediently obliging to his request. Such a pretty picture we make and I'm only conniving ways of ruining the masterpiece. Breathe, breathe, it'll be all right, it'll be all over soon. But what if I don't want it to be over?
You're supposed to be thinking of his twin, you dolt. He's the one you want….Hair collapses into my face and he moves it away. Such a sweet gesture from such a rotten boy….
"Oh Angel," he murmurs.
I can only nod. Oh baby, yes, I want you, I need you, I'd love to love you too. But you're not George…you're not my knight in shining armor, you're not Mr. Right, you are just a diversion, a road block, a distraction….a fatal attraction.
But you are beautiful in your own way and I hope he hears this all the way down the hall, I hope he hears my sighs seeping through the castle walls, I hope he dreams about me and the fact I'm not with him, the fact that he's lost me to his own brother.
It would be so simple to whisper love-struck lamentations, to tug on your hair and confess that I'm burning for your lips. But I go with the motions and lazily trace an oval freckle splashed upon your arm and sigh into your neck.
If only I had wanted his body…and not his soul.