None of these have endings.
If you hadn't noticed.
Seeing his arms changed what I thought of him.
They were pale and sickly; wimpy, one might say. They changed him from who I thought he was into who I hoped he was. It was thrilling.
My dream was chaotic after I found this out. He was there and we developed a friendship, I heard him sing, and all in all it made him more attractive than he ever previously had been. I wanted-no, needed-to speak with him, and therein lay my problem. Talking and conversing with people was a skill I’d been born without. There was no way I could go up to a complete stranger and babble empty words, because while speaking with the person I’d only fully be aware that I was speaking with them-nothing deeper. I had friendships but they had taken time-this I wanted now. I had to figure a way. I started by increasing my status, simply by changing my invisibility. I, of course, had to pick one of the boys that lived the complete opposite life as I-he was High School Popular, I was Not. I simply followed him. In the hallways, I stayed close behind him. I could discern the scent of him among others. This had happened so many times. I was getting desperate, but stayed patient a bit longer. Finally, one day, it happened. I took a step too close as he lagged behind and he bumped into me at the exact perfect moment where he wasn’t distracted. He turned around, looked me in the face and said, “Oh, sorry.” With a smile he left me babbling incoherently (I remember a “no problem,” and “it was my fault,”) and as he walked away I realized I’d need to change my tactics.
I decided we needed to have A Short Exchange Of Words. He would wear shirts with bands on them to school and I would write them in my notebook to research after. I had hoped for one of two things to occur: a) a happenstance where one band was mentioned and we could both respond or b) a malfunction of laundry and an instance where said boy wore the same shirt again (unheard of for a High School Popular) and I could attempt a compliment.
For weeks I waited. There hadn’t even been any more bumps in the hallways to hold me over, though there was the occasional Sidelong Glance during class (these put me in a good mood for the rest of the day). Finally one day the miraculous happened. He wore the same shirt again. As I followed him to his next class after English, I rememberd as I’d rehearsed in the mirror and said, “Hey, I like your shirt.”
This mission failed horribly. I felt my heart break in two. He didn’t even turn around. Either he didn’t hear me (selectively, I convinced myself) or he honestly didn’t have it in him to answer. I cried myself to sleep that night. I couldn’t tell you why if you asked. I’d noticed him first because his mother passed away, and it gradually grew to an infatuation. He was good-looking-so very good-looking-and he was nice to his friends and I hated myself as I fell in love with a stranger.
Seeing his arms changed what I thought of him.
They were pale and sickly; wimpy, one might say. They changed him from who I thought he was into who I hoped he was. It was thrilling.
My dream was chaotic after I found this out. He was there and we developed a friendship, I heard him sing, and all in all it made him more attractive than he ever previously had been. I wanted-no, needed-to speak with him, and therein lay my problem. Talking and conversing with people was a skill I’d been born without. There was no way I could go up to a complete stranger and babble empty words, because while speaking with the person I’d only fully be aware that I was speaking with them-nothing deeper. I had friendships but they had taken time-this I wanted now. I had to figure a way. I started by increasing my status, simply by changing my invisibility. I, of course, had to pick one of the boys that lived the complete opposite life as I-he was High School Popular, I was Not. I simply followed him. In the hallways, I stayed close behind him. I could discern the scent of him among others. This had happened so many times. I was getting desperate, but stayed patient a bit longer. Finally, one day, it happened. I took a step too close as he lagged behind and he bumped into me at the exact perfect moment where he wasn’t distracted. He turned around, looked me in the face and said, “Oh, sorry.” With a smile he left me babbling incoherently (I remember a “no problem,” and “it was my fault,”) and as he walked away I realized I’d need to change my tactics.
I decided we needed to have A Short Exchange Of Words. He would wear shirts with bands on them to school and I would write them in my notebook to research after. I had hoped for one of two things to occur: a) a happenstance where one band was mentioned and we could both respond or b) a malfunction of laundry and an instance where said boy wore the same shirt again (unheard of for a High School Popular) and I could attempt a compliment.
For weeks I waited. There hadn’t even been any more bumps in the hallways to hold me over, though there was the occasional Sidelong Glance during class (these put me in a good mood for the rest of the day). Finally one day the miraculous happened. He wore the same shirt again. As I followed him to his next class after English, I rememberd as I’d rehearsed in the mirror and said, “Hey, I like your shirt.”
This mission failed horribly. I felt my heart break in two. He didn’t even turn around. Either he didn’t hear me (selectively, I convinced myself) or he honestly didn’t have it in him to answer. I cried myself to sleep that night. I couldn’t tell you why if you asked. I’d noticed him first because his mother passed away, and it gradually grew to an infatuation. He was good-looking-so very good-looking-and he was nice to his friends and I hated myself as I fell in love with a stranger.