I get bored with "isn't-he-a-hottie-do-you-think-he-likes-me-ohmiGOD-he's-looking-at-me-and-in-a-perfectly-romantic- situation-we-confessed-our-mutual-love-and-now-we're-married-with-2.5-kids-and-a-dog"-type fics easily. I wanted to do one from another point of view.

I purposely made no allusions to the gender of anyone in this fic. Parts of it can fit into any situation -- Digimon fans will recognize one instantly, I'm sure, and others fans will recognize similar situations. It's not written to fit anything -- it's written to be exactly what it is.

I own this story. I copywrite it. I feel so...so...powerful and triumphant...^_^

by Rb

I wonder what you see when you look at me. You must see more than my body, my hair, my eyes. I wonder what you see. I want to see what you see.

I always feel your eyes on me when I walk down the crowded halls of school. I might be smiling, I might be frowning, I might be doing any number of things -- but you always watch me. No matter where I go, your eyes are on me.

You might think you're being circumspect, but I know you're there. I can feel your red-hot stare as it burns into me. I can hear your voice, normally so loud, mellowed to a whisper when you speak to me.

And since I know that you like me, I can't get you out of my mind. I analyze what little I know about you. It's not much; while I've known you for what seems like forever, I never needed to know you.

Yet you feel this need to watch me, look at me, think about me, crush on me. Love me? Hardly. I hope not. I'd be scared if you thought that your obsession of me is love.

So now you keep staring at me. And I try to be unaware, but no matter what, I can feel you. I feel like I'm being hunted, a timid mouse by a fierce hawk -- but you probably feel the other way, don't you? Like I'm the one that's untouchable. Like I'm the one that's been acting so strangely.

I half-wish you'd come up to me and tell me you like me. It's no secret -- it seems like everyone knows, because everyone keeps telling me, but you cling to your veneer of secrecy like it can truly cloak you from the embarrassment you must feel.

I drop a pencil, and you instantly pick it up, even though I could have reached out and picked it up myself. You reach out your hand so that it extends towards my desk, and I grasp it. Our fingers brush, but only for an instant -- yet still a red-hot blush arcs onto your cheeks, and I feel embarrassed just watching you. I mutter a "thank you," and you duck your head, murmuring "it's nothing", the fingers that touched my skin curled inwards. You gaze at them for a while. I wonder what goes through your mind. Do you think those fingers are now holy, blessed, because they've touched my flesh? Are you reading deeply into my common courtesy?

Do you even know who I am? I don't think you do. I think you admire and obsess over and crush on this picture in your mind that's really nothing like me. You don't know me. You don't know how I feel, you don't know how I think. You like me for some reason that I don't even know.

I don't want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you. I don't want to be mean -- but I cannot live a lie. I can't be false to myself to help you out, even though I feel bad for you. I can't. It's against who I am.

If you really loved me, you might be able to understand this. If you loved the person I truly am, then you'd get this. But you don't love me. You love and cherish this image in your mind, this impossible paragon of perfection. And that's not me. That's not me at all.

"Hey, I...I..."
"What is it?"
"I like you."
"...I'm sorry..."

Why did you trap me like this? Why did I shoot you down? Why do I care about you more now than ever in the times that you were following me around?

My heart hurts, pangs and pangs that keep banging off each other. I feel physically sick, an empathetic reaction to how you must feel.

I wish I was the person you thought I was. I wish I could have given you another answer. I wish -- but it would only hurt more. I did the right thing. I did the right thing. Everyone says so. And everyone says that you'll get over it, eventually.

But eventually is a long time, and I...I don't think "everyone" cares about what you and I feel now.

Me? I did nothing wrong. I did what was the right thing. But still, I hurt. And you -- I can't even imagine how you feel right now.

Maybe you feel liberated. Maybe you're smiling. Maybe you're in tears, or alone, and maybe you hate me now, because I just trampled on your heart and tore down your picture-perfect ideal of me, and maybe you want me even more because I wasn't mean enough, wasn't cruel enough, wasn't clear enough...


I feel like I want to die now, because living is too much effort.

And what'll happen the next time we're in class together? What'll happen when I walk into the room -- will your eyes fall upon me, or will you look away in disgust? Will I feel as self-conscious without a pair of eyes covering my every move?

If I drop my pencil, will you pick it up?