Lonerism

I Shouldn't

I Shouldn't

It's probably stupid, I know, but I loved him.

God, I fucking loved him. And I knew I shouldn't.

I was infatuated by everything about him, everything that made him him. The way that he'd get frustrated at the slightest thing and the way that he'd tug at his hair when he was confused or tired. And that goofy smile he'd have whenever I saw him.

That fucking goofy smile.

It was like his smile was my whole world. When he smiled, it was almost like there were fireworks around him, bursting and twisting in great waves of colour. That smile made everything okay again, if I was feeling like shit or if I had missed him, and both happened quite a lot. It was like he was the only thing that I could look at, mesmerised by him, by everything about him, but by that glorious smile especially.

It was like my eyes couldn't look anywhere else, they couldn't fall from that smile, that crease, those dimples, or the way his eyes glimmered so innocently, so care-freely, so untainted by all the shit in our world. I didn't want to look away, because I felt like that smile was mine, that it was the only thing in this world that could make me okay, that kept me grounded, that made me want to carry on.

I shouldn't love him. I knew that. I really did. I'd sat up every night as a kid, because I'd known since forever how I felt about him, and I'd just thought about it all, over and over, because I knew I wasn't supposed to love him. I knew that in the great plan of life, falling for him wasn't supposed to be there. That in the grand scheme of things, I wasn't supposed to fall in love with him. But I did.

He was my best friend. He'd always been my best friend. He knew me better than anyone, but he didn't know this about me. Or at least I assumed he didn't.

He didn't know that when I woke up every day, I woke up picturing him, imagining his tropical blue eyes, tropical like the light sea-foam waves lapping on the pink sandy beaches of some far off Caribbean paradise.

He didn't know that every waking moment, I was in love with him, that every time I saw him, my heart thumped like I might die, and all I wanted to do was kiss and kiss and kiss him. To kiss his soft, light pink lips, to feel them against my own, warm and wet and beautiful. Because that, to me, was heaven, a timeless guilty pleasure. That was the only thing in the world that I wanted. And, of course, his smile. I wanted that, too.

I don't even know the specifics. It was just somewhere, some time ago, at some point in my life, I started loving him the way that I shouldn't. I started thinking about him in ways that I knew I shouldn't.

And then there were the dreams. The dreams where he'd stand there, staring at me, and then he'd smile the smile of a thousand suns, that once in a lifetime grin, and he'd slowly approach me. I'd hesitate, I'd back up, but he'd get to me first, and his hand would find its way to my cheek. He'd trail it softly over my face, and he'd lean in, and his lips would twitch, and then it would happen. He would kiss me. I would get everything I wanted.

And then I'd wake up alone.

I'm not even really sure why it happened. Why does love happen? He'd just become more to me than a friend. He'd become that effortless guy, that one person on this entire shitty planet that I felt I could be myself around. I didn't have to pretend with him, because he knew. I didn't need to hide myself away from him, because he liked all of me, even the bad parts, even the insecurities and the secrets and the general shittiness of my life. And I had a lot of general shittiness.

But the best thing about him? He never judged. He just sits and he listens, and he hugs, and at least he gave a shit about me, right?

I shouldn't love him. I just shouldn't. Sometimes, I'd wish that I didn't, but you didn't get to choose. And even if you did, I'd still choose him every fucking time. He was everything to me. When he wasn't around, it was like I didn't even exist at all, like I wasn't real unless he was there. He made everything okay. Without him, I wouldn't know who I was, I wouldn't want to know, I wouldn't want anything, because life wasn't worth it if he wasn't in it.

I'd had problems with people all my life, with commitment. Until I'd met him, everyone deserted me, everyone would leave me alone, none of them would give a shit about me because the world was cruel and people were cruel and life was cruel. But he wasn't. He was just there, just him, making no excuses, always there to help. I'd admired him for that. For never leaving me like everyone else.

I shouldn't have loved him. Not as much as I did. Not the way that I did. Because he knew me so well. He knew me so well that he knew all along. I didn't know that he knew, not until he told me, but after that, it became this thing. Not like an elephant in the room, but more like this silent pact between us, this unspeakable secret, and he'd smile.

"I know," he'd said to me. I was about fourteen, and so was he.

"What?" I'd croaked.

"I'm not blind." He smiled. And god, that fucking smile.

And that was it, the whole thing, the whole issue resolved. We didn't speak about it after that. But he knew. And even though I expected him to leave me because of it, to drop me in the shit all by myself like everyone else did, he didn't. He stayed. And that only made me love him even more. And he knew that too.

I didn't know when it became too much, but it did. Being his friend. It became too much, seeing him the way that I did, wanting him the way that I did. It wasn't that I didn't like being around him. It was that, whenever I saw him, I'd only be reminded of something that I knew I could never have.

Whenever I looked at his lips, I knew that I could never touch them, I could never feel them against my own, that I would never have him the way that I wanted him. And I knew it wasn't his fault. I never blamed him for it. And I didn't want to lose him. But what else could I do?

I didn't want to bring it up. I didn't want to tell him something like that. But he knew anyway. Like he knew everything.

"I know," he'd said, once again. I was about sixteen, and so was he.

"What?" I'd said, again.

"I'm not blind," he'd continued. "You're sick of me."

"No!" I'd practically screamed in protest right at him. That was the last thing that I wanted him thinking about me. "It's just that... it's just... I love you." He'd smiled that smile. "I love you so much, and I know that you'll never feel the same." I was crying by then. And he'd rushed over to me, pulling me into his chest, so close that I could smell only him.

"You can't know that," he'd whispered, while gently fondling with loose strands of my hair.

"But I do," I mumbled. "Whenever you aren't around, I feel empty. I feel nothing. I don't want you to go, but when you're here, it's even more painful. At least I feel something, though, right? Even if it is rejection."

"Just do something about it," he'd told me.

"Like what?" I'd asked, flustered.

"Kiss me."

I knew I shouldn't have. Loving boys like him is just one of the stupid things we shouldn't do. But we do them anyway, don't we? God knows why. But we do. And I did, and I'd kissed him, too. Right there, right then, I'd just gently, softly, and quickly did it, as effortless as riding a bike. And right then, it was almost like I just knew.

So it's probably stupid, I know, and you've probably already guessed by now, but, boy, I loved him. I shouldn't. But, fuck, I did anyway.

And, just as it turns out, he loved me too, because, right then, he'd kissed me back.

A.N. This was a really ominous one to write. I don't honestly know where I pulled it from, but I tried to make this one a lot more about being inside someone's head, seeing his feelings, that's why there wasn't much dialogue or action.

I think this one is really important to me, just because it paints a weird picture about how I generally feel. It's something different, but if you liked it, or if you have any questions, just ask. Comment and vote, and thank you for reading. Speak soon.

Clay.