He passed her in the hall. Her, in her tiny skirt, her sweet smile, her bright eyes. Just passed her, as if she didn’t exist. He walked 2 inches next to her, so close she could feel his heat upon her, and he just looked the other way and busied himself talking to someone else. When she stood up in front of the class, she made eye contact with everyone; she was good at that—uninhibited, unintimidated, undaunted. But he wouldn’t even look up, just kept scribbling something on his paper. She wondered if he was hearing her, if he could possibly respect her for her intellect. Maybe he would be impressed. All this was wishful thinking, of course. Their relationship was nothing for the sort, it didn’t involved respect. That would have ruined their “arrangement”. And if that was ruined, then the delicate balance of benign neglect and silent admiration would have been dissevered and thus the end of “them” would be brought.
And on she went on, like some sad little puppy, indebted to a master that never knew her pain. And she bore it, the burdens that drifted into her dreams, both those awake and those asleep. She wanted him to proud of her; to hold her hand, to hold her heart, to stand out and not be ashamed. But he was, and she could never change that. She couldn’t change the fact she brought out the worst in him, that she made him angry, and that her disposition changed his disposition bitter and cynical. That she seemed to crawl under skin and prick every last nerve and he ranted and screamed, hurt her. He didn’t trust her with his secrets even when she was the secret.
It was hard to pick: to be nothing, or to be nothing worthwhile. A rock and a hard place. The better of two evils. On the nights she slept alone, she could hear her heart cracking at the thought of him. On the nights she lay with him, she still wondered if he could her heart cracking. But he never noticed that her eyes glistened a bit with unborn tears, or the ways her hands shook when he touched his face. And every time, she left unsatisfied, and perhaps even a bit more empty than she came.
She cherished her poetry, and above all her poetry for him. She cherished her pictures, and above all her pictures for him. However, above the poetry and the pictures, she cherished her love for him, but he disregarded with a certain brutality that bit into her soul and occupied her constantly. And as he saw that love, he took it and ripped it to tiny shreds and took her body and violated everything ethereal about her.