The Biography of a girl named Brown-Eyes.

Sometimes, Brown-Eyes couldn’t help but look at Blue-Eyes and wonder how this attraction could possibly exist.

How is it that Brown-Eyes drowned in Blue-Eyes, yet she couldn’t stop her breathing? How is it that she collapsed under his words; his touch, and she still had the strength to chase him through hallways. She postponed her tears for a smile when he frowned, and held his forehead in his hands.

Brown-Eyes had an addiction, and expelled those feelings from her body through her fingers with a keyboard. She loves codes, because she liked to think she herself was a puzzle. A pretty simple puzzle, but a puzzle nonetheless. Still, it became habitual, and she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She loved Blue-Eyes, and breathed him in. She filled her lungs with her addiction.

She couldn’t stop the side effects: repressed giggling, and a flushed face whenever he told a joke only she would find funny. Shortness of breath, and a light-headed feeling where she might tumble back down to earth, and bounce back up to her fluffy clouds.

Brown-Eyes dreamed. She dreamed more than ever, and pictured Hollywood-perfect movies with intense moments between them. She’d fall into his eyes, Blue-Eyes, and capture his sweet lips in hers in a perfect clichéd embrace. She grabbed his hand and they ran through the rain, running across highways, fields, and bus terminals. Anywhere they went, the setting would light up with a familiar glow, and a soft visual-perfume, awakening her senses.

And she’d fall and fly. Fall and fly.

But this time, she fell. Hard. And her crippled wings crushed her flight, as she was landlocked. Chained to truth. Reality. Secrets. And the forever vision of Blue-Eyes chasing another girl down the hallway. There was a smile in place of that frown she’d tried so hard to wipe off his face.

Brown-Eyes had smiled always for him. The rain check for sorrow was long over, and they streamed over her ugly, tear-beaten face. She spilled sadness and minimal hope into her keyboard, as she tried to convince herself that she was no longer in love with Blue-Eyes, and that it was all for the best.

But no matter how much you lie to yourself, addiction is addiction, and a habit’s a habit. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t laugh. She couldn’t smile. Not even for him. She’d always smiled for him. But Blue-Eyes had learned to smile, and Brown-Eyes had forgotten.

She couldn’t feel beautiful anymore. People asked about the black border she now drew around her eyelids, and her candy-coated lips, which pouted absent-mindedly. She said she wanted a change. She knew it was rehabilitation. After all, you can’t cry with makeup on.

Brown-Eyes would touch her lips, to feel if they were really still there. The shiny, oily prints lingered on her fingertips. She wondered if the oil would repel wet kisses that Blue-Eyes might have given her. She wondered if she could actually open her mouth for anything important, if this might have ended differently.

You see, Brown-Eyes was a dreamer. But she couldn’t speak. Not anything from her heart. That was for her fingers to encrypt and encode. She knew she had issues. She just wasn’t quite ready to share. She knew the puzzle had broken, shattered.

Brown-Eyes is constantly writing her story, but always in third-person. It’s unsafe to write an autobiography in first-person. What if Blue-Eyes had read their story? Her one-sided attraction. Would he fall in love with her all over, and lift her back up?

She’s lost all faith in dreams and magic. No more love for Brown-Eyes. Only tears, regret, and a collection of poems, which will never know a happy ending.