Do you know that feeling, where it feels like your chest is tightening in on itself, so tight you can barely breathe, but the lack of oxygen is welcomed, it feels good? You convince yourself that you can look at someone for hours and find a new spectacle on their face that you didn’t see two minutes prior. Like the little mole just above the left side of their upper lip.
It didn’t matter if their brown eyes were unfocused or covered by thick black glasses hiding the tiny flecks of gold that beam like sunshine when they connected to yours. It didn’t matter because you have gotten the chance to see them up close, to really see them, as if looking into the two pools allowed you to see the actual sun which pulled you into their orbit. Now every other pair of eyes appear dull and lifeless to that one set.
You feel like just by looking at their mouth you can hear your name on the tip of their tongue, caressing every syllable. You never want to take your gaze away from it, afraid that they would say something beautiful. Even more beautiful than the way the two pink halves shape when they smile.
People knew me as the it girl, the most popular girl at Stanton High. I got invited to the best parties, and attended the football games by cheering on the boys in a short cardinal red mini, waving pompoms in the air for a touchdown. I had straight A’s and was almost guaranteed acceptance at Dartmouth because of both of my alumni parents.
I had to be the best version of myself. At least in their eyes.
He was the boy that no one noticed. He was quiet, bland to the naked eye, a total wallflower who sat on the sidelines and lacked in eye contact with those around him though he had the type of eyes that made you feel like you could drown.
He tried his best to blend into the background, but what he didn’t know was that he was the only one that caught my eye. He was the most intriguing person I had ever laid eyes on even though he couldn’t see me. He couldn’t see anything.