Someone asked her if she was in love, and she balked.  The answer was yes, no, maybe, depends on the day.  But her answer out loud was “No,” scoffing at the question.  “I’m not in love.”

And even if she was, she’d be running from it.  Wanting is useless unless you’re wanted as well, and she didn’t know if she was wanted.  She’d never ask.  She’d wait and pine and wonder into the late hours, overanalyzing every word he said and the ones he didn’t.  She’d never ask what he thought of her.

And even if she did find herself to be in love, she wouldn’t say it first.  She would wait.  Maybe it would slip one day, as he was hanging up the phone.  Or maybe he’d scream it out one night in a moment of passion, which would only lead her to lay there studying his face while he slept later.  Did he mean it?  Would he ever mean it?  But she couldn’t bring herself to say it first, to be seen as vulnerable or naive.  She’d wait.

And she would drive herself crazy, but it might be worth it in the end.


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