Eric

I live twenty feet away from the love of my life, but a million miles away from ever having him. He’s my neighbor, my late-night confidant, and the owner of a laugh that makes my chest physically ache. The only problem? He’s also the boy who kisses my best friend. What starts as a shared fire-escape camaraderie turns into a quiet, agonizing torture of unspoken glances and accidental touches. I’m the secret keeper of his midnight thoughts, but in the daylight, I’m just the quirky girl next door smiling through a breaking heart. There is a specific kind of cruelty in loving someone who is standing right in front of you, entirely out of reach. If I stretch my arm out my bedroom window, I can touch the rusted iron of his balcony. If I leave my window cracked, I can hear the soft, rhythmic strumming of his acoustic guitar when he can’t sleep. I know that he takes his coffee black, that he runs his hand through his hair when he’s frustrated by a design flaw, and that he has a tiny, crescent-shaped scar just below his jawline. I know all of this because I am a careful observer of Eric. I am an expert in his habits, a scholar of his smiles. But tomorrow, I will put on a bright yellow sundress. I will walk down the stairs of our apartment building, link arms with the most, kind-hearted girl in the world, and I will smile as she throws her arms around his neck and presses her lips to his. I will pretend my ribs aren't cracking under the weight of it all. Because she is my best friend. And he is hers.