14 | Facade - G
It wasn't a new feeling, this knot in her stomach. No, she'd felt it before: The way her breath quickened, her pulse racing at the mere thought of it--of him. It scared her, she'd admit that freely. She admitted it to him on occasion. She feared she would fall too fast, too hard, for this boy--no--man. His green eyes were captivating, his light voice entrancing and his laugh intoxicating. His kisses filled her with such intense passion it was amazing she didn't latch herself to him and hold on for dear life.
She knew better.
She'd done that dance before; she'd fallen, admittedly stupid and profoundly aware, for someone who had the potential to be all that she'd ever dreamed and more. She had, at one point, believe she had finally gotten it right. Just like so many before, however, he proved to be no more than just an unsure little boy.
It had broken her beyond repair.
Days and nights and weeks and months she spent grieving this loss. A loss of a love that was never really hers to begin with, a love that was so unrequited it pained her to the marrow. The entire world seemed to crumble around her; nothing held steady, nothing held strong. She felt her insides ripping apart everywhere but at the seams; burst after burst of searing, molten pain throbbing and breaking and buckling every organ that got in its way. No life-giving piece of anatomy was spared, and saved for last was the already-wilting heart.
There is no way to describe the actual physical pain unless it has been experienced.
Yet here she was, at that same doorstep she had ran so far away from again. She met a man who made her smile, someone who had the sense of humor to break through her cynical outlook and turn the corners of her mouth against gravity. She met a man who made her think, someone who gave more than a small amount of intellectually stimulating conversation. She met a man who gave her goosebumps with just a small smile playing across his lips, whose fingertips against her skin made her heart flutter and her pulse quicken--her heart, thought incapable of feeling, race.
She so desperately longed for the look of desire in his eyes as he watched her; desperately needing to feel his lips pressed against hers; desperately wanted to feel him inside of her.
It was not new, no not at all, this feeling.
To appease him she settled for the occasional presence of him in her bed, the short talks here or there, and the sporadic outings in to public. She needed him, more than she would ever admit, and in order to keep some portion of him her own, she would settle for all he was willing to give her: a casual sexual relationship intertwined with something of a friendship.
She would not tell him that she wanted more, would not dare to share with him how often she dreamed (nearly every night) of going to bed with him at night and waking in the morning to find him still with her, tangled naked in the sheets. She would not tell him how she dreamed of him proposing to her, that she had seen him down on one knee with the most gorgeous ring known to man.
She would not tell him she felt he could it for her, no, because he had already told her she was not it for him.
So quiet she stayed. Contented to hold him in her arms when allowed, contented to hug her pillow--still smelling of his cologne--after he left at night and pretend that he had chosen to stay with her.
She knew that it would not be long until he tired of this game, or more likely found another he fancied more. She would not allow herself to acknowledge that there was a very real and certain end to this. It was easier to delude herself into being completely submerged in his entire essence, to wrap herself up in his being and pretend that it would last forever, than to admit, once again, that she was just not good enough.
She'd never be good enough.
She knew better.
She'd done that dance before; she'd fallen, admittedly stupid and profoundly aware, for someone who had the potential to be all that she'd ever dreamed and more. She had, at one point, believe she had finally gotten it right. Just like so many before, however, he proved to be no more than just an unsure little boy.
It had broken her beyond repair.
Days and nights and weeks and months she spent grieving this loss. A loss of a love that was never really hers to begin with, a love that was so unrequited it pained her to the marrow. The entire world seemed to crumble around her; nothing held steady, nothing held strong. She felt her insides ripping apart everywhere but at the seams; burst after burst of searing, molten pain throbbing and breaking and buckling every organ that got in its way. No life-giving piece of anatomy was spared, and saved for last was the already-wilting heart.
There is no way to describe the actual physical pain unless it has been experienced.
Yet here she was, at that same doorstep she had ran so far away from again. She met a man who made her smile, someone who had the sense of humor to break through her cynical outlook and turn the corners of her mouth against gravity. She met a man who made her think, someone who gave more than a small amount of intellectually stimulating conversation. She met a man who gave her goosebumps with just a small smile playing across his lips, whose fingertips against her skin made her heart flutter and her pulse quicken--her heart, thought incapable of feeling, race.
She so desperately longed for the look of desire in his eyes as he watched her; desperately needing to feel his lips pressed against hers; desperately wanted to feel him inside of her.
It was not new, no not at all, this feeling.
To appease him she settled for the occasional presence of him in her bed, the short talks here or there, and the sporadic outings in to public. She needed him, more than she would ever admit, and in order to keep some portion of him her own, she would settle for all he was willing to give her: a casual sexual relationship intertwined with something of a friendship.
She would not tell him that she wanted more, would not dare to share with him how often she dreamed (nearly every night) of going to bed with him at night and waking in the morning to find him still with her, tangled naked in the sheets. She would not tell him how she dreamed of him proposing to her, that she had seen him down on one knee with the most gorgeous ring known to man.
She would not tell him she felt he could it for her, no, because he had already told her she was not it for him.
So quiet she stayed. Contented to hold him in her arms when allowed, contented to hug her pillow--still smelling of his cologne--after he left at night and pretend that he had chosen to stay with her.
She knew that it would not be long until he tired of this game, or more likely found another he fancied more. She would not allow herself to acknowledge that there was a very real and certain end to this. It was easier to delude herself into being completely submerged in his entire essence, to wrap herself up in his being and pretend that it would last forever, than to admit, once again, that she was just not good enough.
She'd never be good enough.