Bleeding Hearts

three

for nikayla, who is so sweet and relatable and funny and deserves the world.

THREE 

I glanced not so discreetly at him, reveling in his chiseled jaw and sandy brown hair as he let out a tired sigh. He's tired. I thought to myself as I noticed the deep bags under his eyes and how his usually plump lips were chapped and dry. His locker is four away from mine, which results in perfect stalking and day dreaming for the day that he forgives me and is once again mine. But for now, I'll stick to stalking.

He's dressed in his modern, typical day outfit—khaki pants, black and grey speckled Nike Roshes, a plain orange tee shirt and his black and white letter man jacket. He dresses like all of the other popular guys now, which surprises me. When he was friends with us he would wear sweatpants and plain sneakers and a plain tee shirt, along with his glasses that I always though made him look adorable. Now he has contacts, and he styles his hair a certain way so that he's just another replica of the new life he's chosen.

The new life that I'm not a part of.

Ford yawns slowly, making a soft noise as he does so that only makes my heart warmer inside of my chest. I'm reminded of all of those mornings waking up next to him and hearing that sound, along with a sigh of comfort as he'd hold me close beside him. I miss those moments almost as much as I miss him, and each morning when I wake up all alone by myself I wonder if he even remembers.

I'm just so sick of myself sometimes. I'm sick of how much I miss him and how much of a wuss I become when ever I think of him. I'm sick of watching his life go by while I remain at a standstill just waiting for him to press play. And most of all, I'm sick of my heart still bleeding for him and refusing to heal it's wounds, I'm sick of waiting on him to heal them.

I'm just about to do something, to harness the small amount of guts that I have left when a perky blonde with large breasts saunters over to Ford and plasters her self on his locker so that all can be seen is her perkiness and her large breasts.

I purse my lips, waiting and hoping to God that he makes her leave somehow. But instead, he plasters on a smile and leans his arm onto the locker beside her. They start to converse, her giggling and running her hand up and down his lean chest while he smiles and breaths his warm air onto her face. The girl is insanely pretty, with wavy blonde hair and exhilarating green eyes that seem to entrance him. I glance at the mirror in my locker, only to be disappointed with my average looks. My brown hair is braided into two French braids down my shoulders, my boxy glasses take up a large portion of my face, and my bags aren't nearly as adorable as Fords. While the blonde looks effortlessly pretty in tight jeans and a crop top, I opted for spandex leggings that lead into worn Sperry Topsider boots and a light blue tee shirt that I got from homecoming my freshman year. It's obvious that I'm a 5 and she's a solid 10.

Just as I assume that things between the two can't get any more heart breaking, the girl leans forward and presses her lips onto Ford's. He responds by grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head so that he has the upper hand, and then kisses her even harder. She wraps her leg around his waist and pulls him extremely close to her so that they're bodies are touching and they're molded as one—one single being that lives and breaths off of each other.

To say that I feel sick is a complete understatement. I feel like my body is burning from the inside out.

Hot tears burn against my eyelids as I finally look away and finish shoving my first four periods into my light blue Hershel backpack. Just as I'm about to make a mad dash for the bathroom and have a good crying session while simultaneously barfing my brains out, I look up and see that Landon is quickly making his way over to me.