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Recollection (1 Viewer)


Eh, this isn't entirely based on reality, but hey, I say, it's close enough.

I was always on the verge of asking her. Every time she smiled, I would open my mouth and then shut it with restricting fear.

I usually sat at home with the Cure and Morrissey playing loudly holding the phone in my hand. I would stare at the numbers that I wanted to press, that I wanted to touch, that I should have already pushed. Some days were different to others. On good days I would get up to six or seven numbers before I quickly slammed the phone back down. On other days I couldn't even touch the cursed thing, even when it rang. I always had a shred of hope that it would be her, but they were always messages about vacations and new cars.

I would spin the phone around in my hand and imagine my conversation with her. I would make up little scripts in my mind as to the perfect words to express my feelings for her. It always wound up ending with an "I love you."

I always quickly put that to rest, when I came back to reality.

When I was with her, I was so close. It wasn't anything she would say, it would just be the way I was there next to her. She would be talking about her new clothes, and that's when I wanted to tell her. I can't explain it.

And every time she would regale me with stories, she would always stare straight into my eyes. I could never look back for longer than a couple seconds. I always needed to turn away. But I would force myself to try again.

That's when I wanted to do it. That's when I wanted to explain.

I wanted to explain why every time she spoke I was listening intently. I wanted to explain why I would help her with any question she couldn't do. I wanted to explain why I smiled when she laughed, why I broke all my plans for her, why I took so much time to choose the clothes I wore, why I never got mad at her.

But I never did.
I always looked away again.


Senior Member
Ah, I hear you hinge. (No pun intended) If it's any consolation, I know the feeling. Sometimes, I can even look at his picture, and, nothing. Only the instant I remember his voice, or imagine his prescence, I have overtaken by the fool urge to blurt out the three words. Those dangerous three words. How I ever survive his actaul prescence, I'll never know, it prolably incolves shutting off strategic parts of my brain, and maybe the spasmodic shut down of involuntary muscles.

So, is this the neverending story, or did something finnaly happen?