I fell in love with him almost instantly. He didn’t really care about me. How could he? He barely knew me. That changed eventually. But not enough. I couldn’t be the girlfriend. He couldn’t be in love with me. So I became the best friend. I did my job well, did it right. I tore myself apart when he fell for someone else and then another someone else and then another. I knew there was no hope for me. I was his friend. His rant-listener, his movie-watcher, his helping-hand. I made myself vital to him. I was good at that. I played the lousy cards I was dealt to the best of my ability and hoped for the best. I knew I should give up. I knew I should move on. I half did. I met boys. Dated them. Kissed them. But they weren’t him. They could never be him. Even with the most perfect of the lot, I couldn’t give them my heart. It was already gone. He carried it around in his pocket without ever even knowing it. I couldn’t tell him. He wouldn’t stay if I told him. So I kept it to myself. It didn’t hurt. I won’t lie and say it was heart-wrenching agony. It wasn’t. There was no painful ache, no tears, no screams. There was an emptiness where I knew something was supposed to be. And there were dreams. Dreams of the way things could have been but would never be. The dreams didn’t hurt either. I knew they weren’t real. Knew that they could never happen but for someone to feel the pain of a broken heart, they have to still have their heart. I didn’t anymore. It was with him. Until he tossed it away, I wouldn’t feel the pain. He couldn’t toss it away. He didn’t know he had it.

I have got it so bad.