When they were ten

She met him.
He met her.

She was fascinated.
He was disinterested.

She couldn't help wanting to talk.
He didn't mind talking.

The more she talked, the more she liked him.
He smiled at her, normally.

She liked him, normally.
He knew her, casually.

When they were eleven

She liked him.
His face was an expressionless mask.

She found ways to talk to him.
He never objected.

She found him a great friend.
He talked to her like anyone else.

She couldn't help thinking of him.
He never gave her a second thought.

She thought he was amazing.
He respected her...grudgingly.

She fell.
He didn't.

When they were twelve

She hid how she felt.
He had nothing to hide.

She hoped and prayed.
He just lived.

She was odd around him.
He didn't notice.

She blushed and stuttered, and then tried to hide it.
He didn't notice then either.

She dropped hints.
He never picked them.

Something happened to her when he laughed.
He kept laughing.

She was undeniably affected.
He wasn't.

When they were thirteen

She couldn't fight it any more: she loved him.
He couldn't care less about her.

She tried telling him.
He ignored her.

She loved him.
He scorned her love.

She was heartbroken.
He wasn't.

And then

She had some impossible months.
He never looked back at her.

She tried to get over him.
He made it easy.

She didn't blame him for a thing.
He blamed her for her feelings.

She's grateful for the experience, painful as it was.
He thinks of it as an insignificant inconvenience, unmindful of how he had casually torn her apart.

She changed, became who she wanted to be.
He forgot everything.

She's happy.
He's happy.

Because that's life. And you keep living.