so i wrote something...
She is stuck at the point where every encounter with him has been "This is his last chance." But each time it is over, and she is counting the seconds that separate them, she closes her eyes and the honestly clings to her sticky skin and she knows she has never had a chance.
The reality of the situation is a lack of reciprocation, promises of best friends and the constant missing of what she never had. She keeps reminding herself that there are no possibilities. Her brain is on repeat "It's better this way." so she accepts that it must be--better. But, when his lips form the words "I missed you" everything is erased and all she sees are his mouth and his eyes and God help her but she is just hoping for a little more than sincerity behind them.
The hope is what kills her--it digs trenches on the insides of her thighs, scars meant to remind her of what isn't there. She is, she always always is, trying to see that, trying to sell herself to an idea that isn't him. When she is lying in bed and the lights are off, she listens to his voice and gets lost in the would-be memories of his fingertips and all the places they might have burned against her skin.
The solitude sinks into her and the ghosts of secrets she should have never told him haunt her mouth, and when her tongue slides across her lips she is reminded that ear to mouth is as much intimacy as she can claim from him. It is then that she is feeling for the thread that stitches them together, standing on the fence between hoping and fearing for a break in the ties that hold them.
She tells herself she has to let go. Sometimes, even, she could look right into those eyes and at the very least deny the flutter (at most to suggest she has already gone.) The butterfly wings in the corner of her stomach are broken. The constant ache is only a love for outdated ideas and hand-me-down dreams that have been wished by others before her, none of which have ever forgetten the one who got away.