A+    A-
A/N:**~I wrote 2 endings to this fic. You can pick the one you like the best. I don’t know which is my personal favorite. Here ya go.

Watching this particular boy is getting harder and harder. For instance, last week, I hid in the janitors closet for 15 minutes to watch him go to his locker and collect his books.

It’s all worth it though. He’s absolutely gorgeous, and his personality is amazing, so I can’t not watch him. I’m not stalking him (I do know where he lives), but I very easily could. I’m in love with him.

I’m watching him right now. He’s sitting underneath a tree on school grounds with a shabby, stained notebook on his lap, and a pen in his left hand, which is being chewed on. I dig out my binoculars, and attempt to see what he has written.

I can see it’s the beginning of a depressing poem, a sad figure of speech penned by a sad boy.

I know this boy is a sad thing. I feel so sorry for him…I cried for him once. All his torment. He’s missed so many days of school, and I’ve seen him sitting alone at lunch, eating nothing, with his head down. It literally breaks my heart.

Once, I saw the boy in the bathroom washing his hands. I was standing next to him, washing mine. I glanced over at his hands, and I saw numerous scars and faint red scratches. That’s how I found out he cuts himself, or he has. But I’ve never heard him say a word.

I have a class with him, when he’s at school. He sits in the very back, chewing on a pencil, staring around the room with his beautiful, brilliant blue eyes. Did I mention his eyes before? I guess not…but they are so pleasantly piercing.

He seems to have thought of another line to his poem, as his left hand begins moving fast. I grab my binoculars and aim them right at his pencil. I decide to check out his wrists too, incase there are any new cuts. I don’t see any so I return to the poem, which I decide to read this time.

Save Me

Living has become such a pain
An ever-losing board game
Figures experiencing life too much
Sorry, sad, wasted, lonely

Crying at night is not enough
H. R. Puf ‘n’ Stuf
Fragile, broken, gone, forgotten

She said she loved me today
Repeat the same lie
Lie to me, lie to me
Let me breath your lies
Let me love you back

Fragile, fragile
Broken, broken
Sad, sad
Mom hates Dad ----

I nearly cry right here on the spot. Just to make sure I don’t, I drop my binoculars, and they land with a little thud on my chest. I hiccup, and the boy looks around to see who did it. I pray he doesn’t see me. He doesn’t, but his notebook goes closed, and his pen is tucked into the spiral.

I emit a small, quiet sigh of relief. The boy pulls his knees up to his chest, and rests his head on them. He closes his pained eyes.

I’m almost ready to leave when I hear someone calling for him. It turns out to be an ugly, wild-haired, blonde chick (who could pass as a guy in a sense…). The boy opens his eyes and turns his head up. The girl bends down and plants a kiss on the boys thin little pink lips. Reacting in a way unexpected, the boy jerks his head away from her, and doesn’t stand up.

She says something to him, and the boy protests. She snaps something else at him, and this time, the boy is standing. She’s giving me an impression of an asshole, as when the boy bends down to tie his Converse shoes, she smiles devilishly, and winks at some boy walking past them.

While she waits for the boy to finish tying his shoe, she continues to smile at other guys. One jocky kid was walking by, and she practically jumped on him. I think that if our boy hadn’t been so close by, she would’ve.

The boy stands, and has a freshly tied shoe. The girl tells him it was ‘about fucking time’ and they start down the sidewalk. I feel so sorry for the boy, having to put up with that. She grips his hand tightly as they walk, but the boy drags his feet behind her, apparently not keen on wanting to be around her. I don’t blame him.

When they are out of my sight, I sigh, feeling sad for the boy once again, and scramble out of my tree, thinking that maybe, just maybe, someday I’ll have the left-handed boy with the crooked smile as my own.

OPTIONAL: I close my old diary, and slip it back inside the box I got it from, and leave to go find my husband, who I will ask a question to. I yell my question as I descend the stairs.

“Hey, Kurt, do we have any more nachos?”

^ back to top ^