Hopelessly

"I will fight for her, but I won't ever fight for her"

Watching her is both my greatest pleasure and my most exquisite torture. She doesn't know I exist, not like that, not the way I need her to. She walks through the world like she owns the ground beneath her feet, chin up, shoulders back, that ridiculous bag of hers slung over one shoulder. And when she laughs? God. It's not delicate or pretty. It's loud, unapologetic, the kind of laugh that makes strangers turn their heads and smile before they even know why.

She doesn't need me. She's never needed anyone. I've watched her fall, tripping over her own feet when she's rushing somewhere, drowning in impossible assignments that drain the light from her eyes, hiding in corners when she thinks no one can see her break and every single time, she picked herself up. Brushed off the dust. And kept going. Stronger than before.

But watching her from the shadows is killing me slowly. Every day, I stand a little closer. Every day, I invent a new excuse to be near her. A word here. A glance there. A moment I can pretend was accidental, even though I've been rehearsing it for hours. I've memorized her schedule. Her habits. The way she chews her lip when she's stuck on a problem, the way she hums under her breath when she thinks no one can hear. I'm a collector of small, stolen things and I'm starving for more.