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It was times like these when he felt like that darn cat in the frikking box: neither dead nor alive. Just a mere theoretical inbetween.
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"Where's your head, Neymar?"
The guy in question tore his eyes away from the window to give his best friend an exasperated look.
"Far away," he answered smugly, shrugging as he straightened in his seat. "With my body yearning to follow it."
That was a lie, of course. He didn't want to be anywhere else in the world. He never did, as long as she was there as well.
He was such a loser in this regard.
She only laughed and shook her head, then turned her attention back to the topic at hand – flicking through the pages of a shitload amount of magazines. The pile on the table between them was as high as the Sagrada Familia.
Neymar fought the happy (sappy) sigh that wanted to escape. What a melodic laugh she had. How his heart soared whenever he managed to elicit it from her.
How it seemed to break over and over again at the sight of her hand.
The ring sparkled brightly whenever the sunlight coming through the broad windows fell on it whenever she turned over yet another page of those God forsaken wedding magazines.
The bane of his existence.
A reminder of his cowardice.
"That one looks great, doesn't it?" she commented, turning the magazine around so that he could have a look at whatever stupid dress she'd stumbled upon yet again.
He barely glanced at it before grunting something non-committedly.
She tilted her head and gave him a stern look. "You haven't even looked at it."
Neymar scoffed. "What's it matter? They look all the same!"
"They do not!" she replied, sticking out her tongue at him. Then she eyed the magazines, some of them open at one particular page with the dresses she'd already marked as "like" and snorted. Unladylike, but he loved her for it nevertheless. "Okay, maybe they do."
He couldn't help but laugh. A second later she joined in.
Other girls would have probably freaked out over his lack of enthusiasm and reply. Other girls would be in full "bridezilla" mode, screaming frikking murder if their best friend appeared like they couldn't care less about the "most important day in their lives", insert swoon here.
Of course she would be different from the rest.
Of course she would never find out that he did actually care. Problem was, he cared far too much.
"What? Is there something in my face?" Her delicate eyebrow raised to form a perfect arch over her eyes. They were bright and wide, giving him a wondrous look. Only now did he realize he'd been openly staring at her.
It was a miracle she didn't know yet.
Her hand – the one with that damn ring on it – went up to her face, hovering over her cheek before pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear.
He could only watch and stare, mesmerized. What felt like an eternity later, he shook his head in reply to her question.
The ring sparkled in the light, mocking him when he glared at it darkly.
"Nothing," he managed to croak after a moment, the damn jewelry and what it meant weighing heavily down on his heart.
It was times like these when he felt like that darn cat in the frikking box: neither dead nor alive. Just a mere theoretical inbetween.
"Hey, you okay?" she asked, concerned. The same ring-laden hand came to rest on one of his own that he was pressing palms down onto the surface of the table.
He was not. Not since that fateful day she told him the news. Not that he would ever have the guts to actually tell her that.
Not that it would actually change things.
He cleared his throat. "Yeah, sure. Why wouldn't I be?"
She kept staring at him. Her fingers softly caressed his hand. He wondered if she was even aware she was doing it. Never mind the effect it had on him.
"You know you can tell me if all this is bothering you, right?"
He wasn't able to meet her eyes anymore, feeling guilty. This wasn't the first time she had to ask him this. This wasn't the first time he found himself incapable to just tell her.
He stared down at their hands instead. Such a perfect sight, her small one over his. His thumb, out of his own volition, rose to stroke over whatever part of her hand it could reach. It could have been perfect, he was sure of it. They were fit for each other, like nothing else in this universe. He was sure of it!
But he'd waited too long. He'd never had the guts. Now, it was too late. He couldn't tell her anymore.
Now, he would rather stick with the theoretical inbetween than risk the death of... "them".
"Seriously, Ney," she interrupted his musings, squeezing his hand. "At times like this–? You can tell me if something's wrong. You know that, right? If this is about the..." She sighed heavily. "I mean, if you don't think it's a good idea for me to..."
He swallowed, feeling the guilt burden him down even more. She couldn't even say the frikking word when she was around him anymore!
She took a deep breath. "Look, if you think this is a mistake, you'd tell me, right?"
There was something in her voice... He frowned and glanced up at her. The look on her face broke his heart all over again, the vengeance for the flighty treacherous feeling of hope he'd felt just now. And for what? Because, for a second – a mere second there – he thought he'd heard the faintest echo of something in her voice, seen the softest glimmer of something in her eyes.
The pain was too much, so he pulled his hand out from underneath hers, crossed his arms over his chest and looked at the brides' magazines. Such a mountain of them between them.
"Of course I'd tell you," he replied, forcing a smile on his face for her sake, biting down his own bitterness for her sake. Anything for her. "Now that dress you showed me about a century ago–" He brushed through the magazines, glad to occupy his hands with something to hide the fact that they were shaking. "The one with that golden flower or whatever on the back?" He found it, pointed at it. Felt his heart slowly die. "That one looks nice."
She eyed him for a moment longer, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Then she blinked, as if waking up from a slumber. She took a deep breath, a soft smile forming on her face.
He didn't dare think it was sad. Or that her eyes were glistening. He didn't dare think anything along those lines ever since she'd said yes to someone else.
If only he'd had the guts to open that damn box.
Maybe Schrödinger's cat would have made it after all.
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First oneshot! :) What do you think? Believe me, it was not planned to turn out so sad! But here it is nonetheless. I'm in a melancholy mood. But I guess there's room for interpretation in the end. :)
