Author's Note

Okay, so this is a story I made at school regarding to this...writing I found in this blog I absolutely love. She writes poems and they're beautiful. Most of my favorite poems come from her, even. When i read this, it suddenly left a very deep impression to me. People may laugh when reading it because it's cheesy or whatever, but I think it's rather sweet. I read it again and again until finally, I decided that maybe I should make a detailed version about it. My version of it - about how I see it as, to be precise. It's about my imagination of how the background lay before the characters in it and how this guy actually felt when I read it. How he thinks of the girl sitting on the passenger seat next to him.

One more thing, though. This is the first time I've written in a guy's point of view, I'm not sure if I'm good at it. Please let me know what you think! And here is the link to that blog.

operahousegirl..tumblr..com


Nothing on Your Peripheral Vision

It is when you are driving back from the city
and you remember how she fell asleep in your passenger seat on long car rides
Even though you told her to stay awake to keep you from growing bored.
And you look from your peripheral vision and you see she is not there
You wonder what that feeling was but you don't quiet think it's love
because you were never truly sure what love was
but she was always convinced she knew.
But you are sure you don't miss the times when she was pretty
it's strange but you miss the times when she was making you mad.
You don't think of the times she adorned you with compliments
but of the silences that didn't feel empty because they were weighted with her presence.

-By, Operahousegirl

Wind blows against my hair as I drive through the empty road, tickling my cheek. Autumn is on its peak. I can smell it everywhere. Sharp—cutting through my nostrils like coffee or fresh-baked bread. The damp and cold, mixed with the smell of grass lingers around me. Leaves burn red and whither and wrinkle before it can no longer stay on the empty and dead branch that once hold it—and it once held onto.

I'm not really interested in the view before me right now, though. As breathtaking as it may be, I would rather look at her rather than any view in the world; and it's true—I wouldn't take the simplest pleasure of lying just to be cheesy or just so it would seem like I love her that much.

I dare to take a glance at the figure sleeping on the passenger seat. I could've shift to get a better view, or try to crane my neck higher so I can see her face—but I need to watch the road. I give up trying and avert my attention back to the road before me—its beauty clouded by the worrying thought of not being able to even see Hazel for the next 2 hours, even though she's sleeping right next to me. My eyes itch to take another glance, but I hold my ground.

I told her to stay awake the whole ride when we were about to take off. I think she's been sleeping late again last night—an old and bad habit of hers. It's not like I'm mad that she fell asleep. I won't mind at all, even. But I just thought that maybe we could have a decent conversation now that we have some time together.

I sighed and relaxed the tense muscles of my shoulders, trying not to strain myself with the thought of her, though I seem to be unable to get her off of my head. I tried to focus my thoughts on the music that plays on the radio, but it's not working.

I know I'm struggling to not think about her right now, but I will deny it completely if one says that I am addicted to her. Because I'm not. I rarely see her, due to the busy schedule I always seems to have lately, and yet I don't miss her so much to the point that I would skip a class just to see her. I don't always think of her—sometimes I think about my homework, my ex-girlfriend, even, and my friends and my family.

A car speed through the road right next to me, going towards another direction, breaking my thoughts. For a moment, I don't feel like I'm alone anymore. The world feels different when there's just me and Hazel, though she's asleep. I feel like there isn't supposed to be anyone else here but us, and the presence of another car feels strange.

Soon, the silence carry my thoughts back to her, and I don't hold it back this time.

The others may not have the same opinion about this, but I think that she's so perfect, in any way. She's smart without even trying, she's funny even though sometimes she doesn't mean to be, and she's so simple. Somehow, I know that she'd always be there when I come back. She never asks for anything from me—although it worries me a little.

I don't think I will ever deserve her. I'm not good enough. She's been too patient and I feel so selfish for still wanting her after all the wrongs that I've done to her. Both fortunately and unfortunately, she always says that she doesn't mind.

I know that she's strong, but I also know that no one can ever feel strong at all times. I know that sometimes she doubt herself over the fact that she's strong—even if everyone says that she is. If only I know what she's feeling; what to say.

There's not that much good in me, and I admit it. I'm broken and I'm mean and I lie. But she told me once—though I still deny that it's true—that she doesn't need to search for all the good things in me to love. She doesn't have any fear that her love would someday fade away—because she loves the fact that I'm not perfect.

It seems so easy for her—the word 'love' seems to so easily roll off her tongue like it's the most natural thing for her to say that. Even when she's not saying it, I can still see it in her eyes. I can feel it in every move she makes.

For me, I can never be sure if I love her. I can never be sure what love is, actually. Affection could be easily expressed with the word 'like', so love must be something more special than that.

A few things that I can always be sure of, however, is that I don't miss the times when she let her hair down or when she's wearing that amazing dress at prom night. I like her the same way then than how I like her when she's dressed in her silly and unmatched pajamas with un-brushed hair and oversized glasses. I don't miss the times when she list the things that she likes about me—or everything that we have always tried to do in the nights of our monthsarry for the sake of being romantic. Though I don't dislike her, if not missing any of this means the opposite of what love is, then I don't love her.

On the other side, every time I miss her, I'd miss the way she annoys me when I'm sleeping or when I'm engaged in an activity that I'm actually interested in. I miss how she express things exaggeratedly when she's happy that I'm starting to get pissed off. I miss how she'd stay strangely silent for a while before suddenly voicing out a completely out of the blue opinion on random things on long car rides. I miss the times when she'd spend her day inside my room on lazy Saturdays. And while she sat on the chair of my study desk—reading a book—and I lay on my bed—playing with my phone, with the radio turned on in low volume just to fill the silence, we'd look at each other and exchange goofy grins, race to the radio and turn up the volume when a song that we both like plays.

If that's what love is, then I'd have a reason as to why not being able to get her out of my thoughts at times like this is not an addiction, and how I don't miss the supposed good times we had does not mean that I dislike her. I love her.