Even if she drops everything and makes herself available, it’s for her duties — not because watching him watch her back is one of the things that could make her heart skip a beat, or two, or about 10. It’s not because she stares and daydreams while he speaks, waiting for him to look over and see how clearly she sees him.

She writes. She writes to get forms done. She writes and spills her soul to clear her head, and clear her heart. What she is, is simply a fragile collection of memories and awkward dispositions and so much time wasted wishing he’ll ever glance or hear or read these words. She just doesn’t belong in his world of sensibilities, and wisdom, and miracles.

If only him, leaving for good would let her broken heart rest in pieces.


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