Now that I knew why she was hurting, who was hurting her, I watched her even more closely. Rather than searching for the cause of her pain, I was searching for proof of her continued abuse. The last half hour before class let out was excruciating, knowing that she was holding herself together with great difficulty, knowing that I had to wait. Had to wait to ease her pain, had to wait to look into those incredible green eyes and see her looking back at me with love and hope and gratefulness. Wait was the worst four-letter word.
Worry.
Anticipation.
Immured.
Taut.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
I missed her. I missed her when I was apart from her, I missed her when she was two feet away, when she was at the front of the classroom and I at the back, I missed her when she was in my arms and my lips were on hers. I missed her because I loved her, so much that it hurt.
YOU ARE READING
Her
Short StorySome say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed. Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed. Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless, aching need. I say love, it is a flower, and you, its only seed. It's the heart afrai...
