The way her hair falls into place when she pushes it off her face.
They way she bites her lip.
The way she sticks out her tongue, on slightly, when she’s focused.
They way she laughs.
They way her brown eyes sparkle.
The way her eyes crinkle when she smiles. In fact the way she smiles, in general.
Everything. Everyway about her. Flawless. Perfect. Only thing wrong?
She’s not mine.
She’s his.

It's a typical story, isn’t it? I want her, I can’t have her. I live the rest of my life in the corners, the fringes of existence, desperately trying to hold on to what little lust I have before I inevitably get crushed by the very thing I crave. Love. I crave love. But not just any love, oh no. Her love.
But everyone wants her. The jocks, the nerds, the bikers, the cool kids. Me. We all want her. But can’t have her.
Such clichés really. Makes you want to throw up, I know. But no matter how clichéd, it is the truth. The dream shattering truth. I can’t have her. And the truth is, I don’t think I ever will.

It’s not that I’m not fit. I’m incredibly fit. I’m on the basketball team. I have abs to prove it. It’s not that I’m not funny. I’m very funny. I crack lots of jokes. And she laughs, and I get to see her smile. Her smile. And it’s not that I can’t take that boyfriend of hers, if that's what your thinking. I can take him any day. It’s just one small factor. One small factor I have to live with. And it's because of this that I will never win her heart.

She, Ally Rowell, the most genetically and mentally perfect specimen on this God forsaken earth would never fall for someone like me.

A girl like me.