What's Farthest Away Is Mere Inches From My Hand

July 3, 2011
By Anonymous

It’s almost funny, I think, that the person I want to notice me the most is sitting beside me, his hand mere inches from my own. He’s right here, laughing loudly at the movie on the screen, and I’m not even able to pay attention to the actors; all I can think about is how ironic it is that I’m invisible to the person who’s seen the most of me all these years. He’s seen everything, which I guess is why reciprocating my feelings is such an impossibility. I wonder why he doesn’t have a girlfriend, I mean, his parents bother him about it enough, for goodness sakes, his parents bother me about not having a boyfriend. I wonder if they know about how I feel for their son, but hoping that they nag both of us in hopes of getting us together is almost as laughable as whatever witty line the main character just said. He’s chortling again and I can’t help but giggle along, it’s horrible how contagious his happiness is. He always seems happy, and I can’t help but be the same when I’m around him, no matter how desolate I feel inside, I’m always smiling.
I really do try and watch the movie, but it all passes by in a blur, the storyline faded in my mind the moment the scene disappears. Our bucket of popcorn situated between us posed a problem as our fingers would occasionally brush against each other as we both reached for a handful. I wish it was like in the books, where we both freeze and just let the electricity mingle between us, but I had no such luck. While my end sure received a shock, a glimpse into the pleasure of holding his hand, a dream so lost I can’t hardly explain the meaninglessness of wanting it, but his hand just continues to move along, scooping up several pieces and popping them cleanly into that perfect mouth of his; I wasn’t even sure if he noticed our hands’ encounter, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I bit my lip to hold back a sigh and averted my eyes from the bowl, putting my hands back in my lap because, suddenly, I’m not very hungry anymore.
This is just the way my life with him is, I guess: an endless array of painful occurrences, the silence eating away at the pieces of my heart. Well, what I wish was silence. I guess my feelings are screaming at me so loudly it’s like I’m deaf to everything around me. It’s something I deal with, quietly, in the seat next to his. I smile and laugh and continue to be a friend, someone he might think of as a sister, and I’ll live with that, because it’s what’s best for both of us. That’s my philosophy anyway, what is supposed to happen will, and what’s not… is like this.

The author's comments:
I'm not sure what I'm writing really, just errant thoughts passing through my mind as I sit, bored, in front of my computer.

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