Unworthy

When it happens, you’re like a string of taffy. He leaves the classroom, and you want to run after him like a dog, hoping you can catch up before he reaches the stairs. He either doesn’t look at you, or his eyes drift over like you’re as interesting as a piece of lint. You crave that look, then you don’t. You’re better than his love, then you aren’t. You want him to wait, then you never want to see him again. Like taffy, you’re pulled two ways.

Your body turns to him. His face is a work of art, his words less so. You want those murky brown eyes to linger on you just a second more than they ever do. You want to capture him, make his breath hitch the same way yours does, but you don’t have that magic.

You wonder if it’s you. You’re not the prettiest. Lovely eyes, but that’s the only exceptional thing. You’re not slender or fit like him. Your personalities don’t seem to click, either. He’s the last to laugh at your jokes. He rarely looks when you speak. The more he refuses to notice you, the more you desire to impress him.

It’s a twisted game, and you always lose. You’re either mad at him, or head-over-heels for him. You try to give up, but he reignites your hope with that side glance. Maybe it wasn’t a passing one this time. Maybe he wants you. But still he leaves the classroom, quick on his feet.

You lie in bed thinking of him. You imagine him obsessing over you with the same fervor that you do with him. You imagine the two of you in a dark place, his lips kissing you fiercely. You imagine being perfect for him, and knowing that in reality--you’re not.

It stings. It’s a masochistic game you torment yourself with. The unattainability only makes you want him more, no matter how unhealthy everyone says it is.

You can’t help it. Getting drunk off the pain of your unrequited love is your greatest pleasure.