She'll Never Know

I don’t understand—how could anybody hate her? She is perfection in human form. Nothing could compare to her. The way the sun hits her eyes highlights those golden flecks she thinks nobody notices. The way she smiles with her eyes before her teeth. The way she chews on her pen cap, no matter if she’s writing on paper or online. How her eyes light up when someone remembers something about her—even basic things, like her birthday.

Gosh—who hurt her?

The way she can read people like a book, adjusting her tone if she senses something is wrong. How could somebody hate that? How could somebody hate her?

I’ve sat two rows behind her in math class for the past two years. She will never know who I actually am, just like how I’ll never know her story. Maybe one day I’ll get to know her story, and she’ll get to know my name. I’d tell her anything she wants to know about me if it meant getting to hear her voice.

She walks close to the walls, like she’s trying to disappear. Like the air she breathes isn’t hers. She says sorry when someone bumps into her. She flinches when somebody laughs—she assumes it’s about her. I don’t think anyone’s ever told her she deserves to be here. Maybe one day she’ll look two rows back and see the person who has always loved her.

I think back to the first time my eyes landed on her. I heard her voice, and it was a drug. I was addicted, and no matter how much I took, it wasn’t enough. Everything called me back to her. She was herself, and no matter what she thought about herself—she is enough.

I think it started two years ago. She walked into school late one morning with tear-streaked cheeks and nobody said anything. Not even the teacher. I don't understand how nobody noticed. She would have noticed if it was anybody else. I wish they could see that she was perfect. Too perfect.

The thing that kills me? She will never know who I truly am.

She likes to think nobody is like her. Like she’s all alone on a deserted island where nobody can save her. I pray that one day she’ll realize she’s not alone.

I’ve had a thousand chances to say something. But I don’t. Because what if I ruin what I don't have yet?

It’s currently third period—10:56 a.m. The classroom is loud, but the only thing I can hear? The clicking of her pen.

Gosh, I’m pathetic.

No matter what I try, no matter what game we’re playing, I will always lose to her. She always clicks her pen when she’s nervous—or when she’s thinking. She’s so creative, and that makes me... confused? I don’t know what to feel when I’m around her.

I think of saying hello. I think of truly acknowledging her, letting her know what I feel. Even if she doesn’t feel the same. But every time, I choke up.

Somebody made a joke—I couldn’t hear what it was, but presumably a joke about her. She rushes up to the teacher to ask for a tissue. Her voice cracked halfway through asking. I didn’t catch what they said, but it sure won’t fly with me.

I catch her doodling to stop herself from crying.

What. Did. They. Say?

I caught a quick glimpse. It looks like... her? But it’s different. The lips were different. The nose was the exact same as hers but with freckles.

Who are her parents? Because I want to meet them and personally thank them. How do you create such a beautiful human being?

I’m still stuck on who she was drawing. Was it her sister? A relative? I can't place it, but the drawing looks so similar—similar to her face. No matter who or what she was drawing, it’s perfect.

Just like her.

Three hours have passed. I’m now sitting in English. I don't have English with her, but I wish I did. I wish I could hear what she puts down on paper. To hear her ideas, her voice. I’d do anything to hear her talk.

She has to be as amazing in writing as she is in art. I sometimes catch myself imagining the way she writes, how it would just flow onto the paper. She would never know that whatever she has to say drives me crazy.

It’s a weird thing to say, but I think I’m in love with her. Anything she does drives me crazy. I am pathetic—but I’m pathetic for her.

I think she’s one of those girls who still has, and listens to, CDs. That’s great news for me—I have a bunch of burned CDs I’ve made for her. I make them once in a while to stop myself from confessing everything I feel about her.

She makes me want to sing. Is that a normal effect for someone who’s crushing hard over a girl? If she wanted me to, I would sing. Only for her. I would try my absolute hardest while singing, making sure it’s the best. She only deserves the best.

Nobody acknowledges that she deserves the best because of how limited she’s made herself. This girl alone is prettier than every single popular girl combined.

That’s weird for me to say because apparently, I’m a “popular” kid. I don't like being titled as “popular”—it's not me. When you think popular, you think rich, snobby bullies. I don't want her to think of me as a bully or a snob. I’m not.

My parents have worked hard for everything they own. So yes, I grew up “comfortable,” but that doesn’t mean I’m better than anyone else. I hate people who think that just because they have money, they are better than anybody else.

You are not.

Everyone is equal and should be treated equally. Money doesn’t mean anything to anyone who actually cares. If you find someone who likes you for your money first, then your personality—that’s not a good person.

I hate not being able to be open about my feelings for this girl. All of my friends have been talking about me and these popular girls. Don’t get me wrong, they’re gorgeous. But my heart only longs for one. Nobody knows about her, and that drives me crazy.

I hate when girls come up to me and act all entitled—like we should get together because my parents know their parents.

Congratulations! Our parents know each other!

That doesn’t mean I know you. That doesn’t mean I like you.

I wish I could see how she would react when I told her that part about me—how I don’t like entitled, rich snobs. Her face would probably light up, and she’d ask, “Really?”

I would respond with: Yes. Yes, that’s true.

Then she would look at me with those gorgeous brown eyes, and it would drive me insane. She would get to know that. That her eyes drive me insane.

I’d tell her every day that her beauty is so blinding it distracts me—if that meant I could keep her. Keep her in my arms forever and never let go.

If she were to know how I feel? Everybody would see the true her. Not this quiet, limited, shy girl. They’d see her as the caring, kind, and beautiful girl she is. The girl who will always remember every detail about you. The girl who remembers the small things and takes pride in remembering.

She is perfect. Every inch of her is perfect.

I need to tell her how I feel soon—before I bulldoze all over ruining what I don’t have yet. I need to tell someone about this. About her. Because I’m bottling this up, and it's slowly ruining me. Every inch of me is just going away, chip by chip, because I can't say anything about her.

I hate this.

I feel trapped in a box, and only she has the key to let me escape. I don’t want to scare her—but I want to love her. I want to show her off to the whole world.

But I know that would scare her. And I need to keep her.

No matter what it takes.

If there’s something wrong about me? I’ll change it right away.

But I need her.

Like the air I need to live.