Desperate

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nine

During our brief flirtationship, I had been quite content with the situation. Nothing less, nothing more. I had hurt him, he had hurt me and neither parties were particularly interested in anything more than what we had—for the moment. Though we both knew something could very possibly blossom out of the current situation, he wasn't making a move, so I wasn't going to either.

In the height of our relationship (if you can call it that) we were both in a kind of hyper aware phase. That weird stage when you would walk over to the person the other was talking to, just to stand next to him. When you would sit next to them in class, but pretend it was because of someone else. When there would be casual touches, sneaky smiles, playful banter.

Taylor Swift had it wrong. Loving him was not red. It wasn't even a color.

Loving him was all small touches and sly smiles.


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