watch Sometimes, when she is not looking, he watches her. She is grace and beauty and intelligence in the same body. Radiant; she unknowingly glows. She is inexplicably desirable, and no one who finds her that way can seem to explain why. She's stunning. She's a time bomb that goes off every time she laughs. How redundant! But it's true. He can readily attest to that. He's seen her in every mood there is to comprehend: happiness, anger, sadness, confusion, anxiety, ecstasy, joy, love, and the other one million and a half that the girl has stored up in herself. It's something he's quite proud of, actually. He hopes he's the only one that knows that. He will almost always catch her staring at him, but she never catches him. He is slick and sly. He knows when to turn corners to narrowly avoid a brush against her cloak or her hair, and when to turn to his friends and make it look like he'd been conversing naturally with them the whole time. He is so subtle, he is scary. When he catches her watching, she is always embarrassed to be caught. She turns red, her freckles seem to burn and she looks away, flushed. She mumbles something incoherent and does not turn to look back at him...for some time. Then she'll turn her head and glance at him again. He doesn't know what's so interesting about his appeareance, or about him at all--but then again, she'd say the same thing about herself, wouldn't she? "Why do you insist on staring at me? I'm nothing to look at. I'm nothing special. You're crazy." He knows her well enough to know that that was the most likely thing she'd say, if she ever found out that he'd been secretly staring at her. If. Hopefully, she will never find out. It is one of the not-so-many secrets that he chooses to hide--from her, and her alone. They are not watching each other all the time. They are not torridly obsessed with each other; they are just secretly in love. They are glances to the side during class, and sometimes long, almost peculiar stares. It's an art, the one of watching. An art both of them seem to know quite well. At the end of the day there is no need to slip behind statues or turn abruptly to the side. By the end of the day, if it is one where they have not spoken to each other at all because of time conflicts or anything else, their eyes and necks are strained. It is at this time that he wants nothing but to run his hands through her soft red hair and press his lips against hers. It is then that she no longer needs to wait to taste the sweet tang of his mouth, or to wrap her arms around his neck and bring his face closer to hers. They are there, with each other, and at the moment it is enough. In the morning, he will wake before her, and she will still be sleeping. There, he takes his time watching her. back