There’s a way he looks at me, I’m pretty sure he’s convinced it’s genuine adoration or something sentimental like that. He means well.
But I know what it is-that look on his face. It’s wonder. Wondering if I’m ever going to live up to you and everything you made him feel.
Everytime I tell a story, he’s on the edge of his seat, hoping it’ll be as funny as the stories you told him. I watch him die a little inside every time he realises that I’m not that deep, not like you.
You-he never talks about you and I can’t bring you up. I’m not that girl. I’m not insecure enough to spend time obsessing over a girl he used to know. I’m not the kind of girl to stay up all night wondering how pretty you are neither am I kind of girl who writes letters like this, and yet here we are.
There’s so much I don’t know about you, like your name for starters. The one time he spoke about you, he didn’t say it. Like it was too precious to be said to the likes of me. I’m competing with a ghost here and I hate it.
Give me a name or a face or something, anything to go on. You’re a mystery, mystery is beautiful and I can’t compete with beauty.
I’m a hell of a girl, but you…You must be SOME girl to have caught and kept his attention for that long (yes he mentioned how long that one time he spoke about you).
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not jealous. I’m enchanted by the mystery that is you. You had everything that I have and you you could walk away from it. It takes a certain kind of person to do that.
So bear with me admiring you while I bear with him trying to get over you.