If Only I Had Told Her

But all I can think about is Autumn. The way her brown eyes shone as we built the tent yesterday. The way I could smell her soft hair as she was curled up against me this morning. The way she had arched her back and made that noise before getting off the couch. That she is now undressing to take a shower.
I am thinking about Autumn intensely, but not in a way that is going to make me feel better, now or in the long run.

She’s back.
Behind me, I can hear her cross the kitchen and sit at the table.
“Feeling better?” Jack asks.
“More or less,”

“That’s not how Autumn likes her toast, loser.”

I learned my lesson when I tried to kiss her and she didn’t kiss me back.

I never stood a chance.
Even before she grew breasts.
I need to stop this train of thought.
Might as well get this over with then.

It puts me at such a disadvantage. Her brilliant, goofy brain was already enough. Why must she have a perfect face too?

If I move, Autumn will wake up.
If Autumn wakes up, she’ll see my body’s assumption.
This is what I get for putting myself in this position. Again.
Not that I’ve been in this exact position with Autumn.

but it felt like the atoms between us were warm with my love for her.

“You were the biggest, most impossible dream for him.”

“Like, fairy-tale love? Cartoon character with hearts floating all around him? Or a movie montage with the best song?
That’s what you were to him.”