She was yours an awfully long time ago.
happy endings
I love watching him talk about her. The way his eyes dance — so much life, so much interest, in matters that otherwise seemed so small. Perhaps it was something about the way his ears pricked up whenever he heard her name, the way he sat a little straighter, the way he'd look into the distance as he paused between sentences. I've always wanted to ask him whether he was imagining the details of her face, the ones he memorised and recited to himself each day so he would never forget. But I never did. Perhaps it was the way he pronounced her name — articulating each syllable clearly, but gently, as though it were a dandelion made out of a million feathers that would fly off with heavy gusts of wind. The way he'd say it slowly, the way he never yelled it, like he would never want to tarnish a name so sweet. The way he squeals like a girl, although not out loud, at the little things they did together. He always had something new to tell me with each passing day, and I would never tell him to stop, I could hear him go on all day — how could you reject listening to the stories of someone so in love? I knew he was falling, I could see it in the way he wrote her name over and over again on his notes. The night he told me he kissed her on the forehead under the glow of the warm moonlight, oh god he wouldn't shut up, but then again, neither could I. Why did you do it, I asked. I'm a curious person — I wasn't doubting him, I genuinely wanted to know. No one ever tells you these things — when it's the right time to ask someone out, to hold their hand, to kiss them under the moonlight. He told me that the moment felt right, and so he did — god that was so adorable. (you scored) He tells me he's the luckiest guy in the world to be with a girl like her — I recall those days when he would never call her 'his', the days he thought himself inferior, the days he felt that she would be happier with someone else. He would deny it if I told him now, but back then I could already see the traces of I Love Yous, the way he wished he'd be good enough for her, the way he only wanted what was best for her and nothing else. He would wait up for her till she goes to bed before he hit the sack, I remember the night he fell asleep at his table at 2 in the morning, he was a zombie in school the next day, and I didn't have to ask why. Even with those lazy eyes and his wandering mind, he never seemed to mind. Everything was for her. I don't know if I like her, was the most frequent sentence he would hound me with. Day and night. I'm kind of wondering if she likes me too — I knew he was. I remember how they first met — how she hated his guts, how he didn't hate hers, how they started talking into the night but assumed there were no feelings. Oh, they were there alright. They kept their feelings far back in a corner of their hearts and closed their eyes, pretending to be blind, but love doesn't work that way. How they fought against all odds to school together, how fate seemed to work against them, how much they yearned to be together, yet without the intention of being together. An innocent and perfect kind of love, all those months ago. I watched their love blossom, coached their little game of tag, until it was no longer a game. He got her, he got her heart, and kept her kiss in the pocket of his shirt, where it would remain forever. She's mine — he told me.