We talked once a week now.
It was like we were back to before.
When I stared at you through my window.
And you hung out with your friends.
I knew you had time to talk.
I saw you with your friends.
But you didn't want to talk to me.
I understood that.
I couldn't provide you with everything you wanted.
But I wasn't going to be sorry for that.
I couldn't control whether or not I was ill.
So I had no reason to be sorry.
I just wished you asked why.
Why I couldn't do what you wanted.
But you didn't.
But I wouldn't blame you for that.
YOU ARE READING
12 Months
Short Story12 months is all she has to make this work. Years of staring at the boy by the park through her window. Maybe it's time to take a risk. Or maybe it would be too dangerous.
