What makes her better than me is that she’s skinny. Petit. She has long hair. She doesn’t have to try to look pretty when she wakes up in the morning. When she wakes up twenty minutes after I do because I have to put on pounds of makeup every day just to look presentable.

But he doesn’t care. He won’t care how much makeup I wear. How nice I dress. How I wear my fancy perfume. No, I’m a friend. One who’s out of the loop, I may add.

What makes me better than her is that I care. I care when she hurts him. I care when he cries. I never did that to him. Support. Friendship. But I want more.

But she’s special. She’s the one to get his attention. And when she shuts him out, I’m the one to make him smile...and she’s still the “special” one.

Sometimes I see a change within him when he sees me. He tells me he’s confused but won’t explain why. Suddenly he’s talking to her less. To me more.

Something’s changing and I can’t figure it out. But she’s still special.