love is a four letter word.

she walks into the room, her eyes scan the cafe, hoping to see him, or just catch a glimpse.
she goes there more than she should, more than she would if he never existed.

“this time i’ll say something, something will happen,” she says to herself, trying to build up the courage she needs to even say something so simple as “hi” to him.

it’s so hard for her to speak to him, when all she really wants is to listen. for him to talk, for him to explain his life to her so she can tell him that everything in his past is what makes her love him more.

“he’s just a boy. not a zombie out for brains,” she thinks in her head as she sees him.

and she’s paralyzed.
she can’t say what she wants.
she crosses her arms.
she stares the other way.

she gives him every possible sign that she’s not interested, when inside she’s screaming. screaming because everything she is doing is the opposite of what she wants to do.

is it because every other woman who walks in there flirts never-endlessly with him? is it because she doesn’t really see who he is on the outside, rather who he is on the inside and she doesn’t even know him? is that even possible?

it’s because she’s afraid. afraid of the rejection from someone who makes her feel so right inside. so she closes him off before he even had a chance.

“give me a sign, Jesus. please. all i ask is for one little sign, the sign that makes my stomach tie into a knot, because i know that was the moment.”

she wears her rosary around her neck, not only for protection in her travels, but for something to fidget with, to calm her nerves. saint christopher can’t help you now.

she sits. she watches. she makes sure to only look when he’s not. we can’t make eye contact. it frightens her. she can feel him inside her when their eyes meet. like he can see her past; he can see her stories. but he won’t let her see his.

all she wants to do is tell him her stories. for him to kiss her head, hold her. tell her he loves her for her demons the same as she loves him for his. as he pulls away he whispers,”angels are overrated”.

she shakes her head and goes back to reading her book inconspicuously. all while, the entire time she’s waiting for him to come and talk to her. he walks by every now and then, not knowing that every footstep he takes close to her, her heart stops. every moment he lingers around her, close enough to smell him, she stops breathing.

he mimics what she does. every move, and she doesn’t realize it until it’s too late or someone tells her. he closes off when he sees her, just like she does. he talks to everyone but her, just like she talks to everyone but him. he dances around her, just like she pretends not to notice.

it’s a vicious cycle. one she doesn’t know how to stop.

this is the one time he has to ask the girl. this is the one girl who won’t flirt with him never-endlessly. this is the one girl who could change his life if only he made the move.

but how will he know that she’s interested? that she loves how his brain works and not how his hair sweeps into his eyes at the most inappropriate moments, if she doesn’t at least give him a sign.

she sighs, “ the world works in mysterious ways.”

and she packs up her things and leaves.

“maybe next time.”