I see you across the classroom, staring intently at the chalkboard and writing your notes without looking at the paper. You don’t see me. You don’t really know me. But I know you. I know your hobbies, your favorite color, your sister’s name, your girlfriend. Trust me, I’m not a stalker. I’m just your best friend. You tell me everything. About how your girlfriend cheated on you, but how you still love her. About how you sometimes think she doesn’t understand you, how she tries to change you. And it kills me. Because I love you exactly the way you are. I wouldn’t dream of changing you, because you’re already perfect to me.
At lunch, we are sitting together in our favorite spot (the corner booth of the coffee shop that is attached to our ritzy high school) when she struts up, tossing her bouncy blonde hair over her shoulder. She demands you to come and sit by her friends, the cheerleaders, the football stars, and the generally popular. You shrug and get up; collecting the Spanish project we had been working on and taking your black coffee. Its smell disappears with you and suddenly I’m left sitting alone at a booth that’s too large for me.
This isn’t a romantic comedy or a Taylor Swift song. The nerdy best friend won’t get the guy in the end, the cheerleader girlfriend won’t get dissed by the entire school, and no climatic ending will bring us together. I’ll forever be the dorky, awkward best friend in your eyes.