Sometimes, when it gets to be a little too much and the words all crowd together and I wonder why the hell I’m trying to think in the first place- then I write. More like scribble. To anyone else it’s a meaningless scrawl on a scrap of paper, something that could easily be tossed in the garbage can without much thought. To me it’s a lifeline. A thread. A way of thinking, realizing, wondering- okay, I’m being a little overdramatic.

He tells me that alot. The overdramatic thing, I mean.

I guess, if I had to sum it up in one sentence, I would say that I write because if I didn’t, I’d have an emotional breakdown.

He plays music for the same reason.

It’s gotten to the point where he’s never off my mind. I could be thinking about something totally unrelated- in fact, I usually am- and then suddenly his face pops into my head. That quirky, endearing grin. The shaggy black hair that I fight the urge to play with whenever I see him. The way he towers over me- a 6”3ish giant to my puny little five feet and four inches. But there I go again.

I guess, if I had to sum him up in one sentence, I’d say he’s the one thing I didn’t even know I was looking for until I found it.

Yeah, yeah, I know it’s still dramatic. Cut me some slack, okay? I’m trying here.

It’s been two months since I last kissed him. Again, that sounds more dramatic than it really is- and I say that because we’re still together.

Barely.

Somehow, we made it through half of June and all of July and most of August without seeing each other.

It wasn’t easy, ya know. It kinda sucked actually- all the fights we picked. The amount of times I brought her up.

He claims he never liked her. Maybe one of these days I’ll actually believe him. But how can he stand there and tell me; his face just screaming innocence and honesty and can’t-you-just-trust-me-for-once; that they were best friends for three years, yet neither of them ever had feelings for the other?

How can I know whether they acted on those feelings or not? Not to mention the fact that the entire school thinks I’m her replacement. How does he think that makes me feel?

I may be overdramatic and easily distracted and a bit of a mess, but I’m an original. Seriously. Let me hold on to a bit of my dignity here.

I met her, you know. Last March, when she came back to visit.

It makes me sick to think that she’ll be around long after I’m gone. After all, the one thing we both know is that I’m just a temporary distraction.

She’s permanent.

I wish she’d just stay at boarding school. Stay the f*** away from here.

From him, I mean. But then, you know that.

Maybe it’s stupid, that I’m so jealous.

But then, she loves him. He doesn’t know- how could he? This is the same kid who was completely oblivious until I (embarrassingly) confessed my feelings for him. But I know.

I saw the way she looked at him that day. How she stood just a little too close to him; how she laughed at everything he said; the way she tilted her head and leaned towards him when she spoke. It’s written all over her face.

He told me she’s quite the catch at boarding school. She has anywhere from five to twenty guys obsessed with her on any given day. Yet once they try and make a move on her, she loses all interest.

He told me this because he thought it would help- that it would make me think she failed at relationships. All it did was help me realize that she’s waiting for him. Whether she knows it or not is none of my business.

Actually, I hope she never figures it out.

One time, just to add more fuel to the fire, I remarked that it was almost like every guy who met her fell instantly in love with her. He paused; then turned and gave me a look that was impossible to read.

“Well, yeah.” came his response. “You could say that.”

She might live over 8,000 miles away, but as long as he stays with me, she’ll never really leave.

But I don’t care anymore because it’s gotten out of hand and it’s driving us apart and the words are starting to crowd together until I can barely see the page because it’s getting all blurry again. So I ignore those brown eyes; the ones boring a hole into my mind, begging me to listen. And I write.