What Could Have Been

Looks Don't Kill, Glances Do

Glances.

Every fucking glance was a stab to my soul. I wanted to reach out, reach out until a glance is a glance no more, until it is now a deep gaze into your piercing eyes, a death wish dressed as a beach.

Every moment of the week I had tried to catch your eye or had tried to avoid it, neutralising my intentions, my mind too confused to follow my heart. Every chance I got, I used it to take in every bit of your being: the way you laugh, the redness of your hair when it hits the sunlight, and god, your eyes, acting like the sun itself.

Wish you'd just let me admire you instead of making my heart skip a beat by looking back from time to time. And I bet a smirk was on your face, because you knew that I was, in fact, falling oh so deep for you.

Unanswered questions are my biggest pet peeve, and one of these has been stuck to my mind: if I swallowed down what was left of my pride, a pinch, a pinch, a small, small pinch of my pride, and walked to you, said hi, hugged you again and never let you out of arms, would I feel better or would I feel worse?

Never in that week had I spoken to you. It was torture, like needles digging into my mind, and god, I was missing you and the way we used to stay up all night talking; how did we end up here, not talking, not even looking at each other? Like you've forgotten the drunken nights you've spent talking to me, telling me that you wish I was with you, with me telling you how god damn stupid you were (but I didn't stop talking to you. I would never dare).

You were right there, love. You were there, but you were a million miles away.

It was perfect. We were perfect. Not sure where it went wrong.