The First Draft

She didn't look at me today. Or maybe she did. No. She didn’t. I would’ve felt it. But maybe she looked when I wasn’t looking. God! what if I missed it?

“She saw you. She sees everything.”

“She doesn’t care. She never will.”

“You’re not ready. Not yet. Make yourself better. Sharper.”

“Make her softer. Write her into something that needs you.”

So I opened a blank page. White as her shirt. Empty as my chest. And I began.

---

“She smiled at me.”

Lie. Doesn’t matter. Let her smile. Let her love you, just once, even if it’s pretend. Why lie? She didn’t smile. She wouldn’t. You need this. She needs this. You’re disgusting. I rewrite it.

---

“She looked in my direction, like maybe she remembered me from a dream.”

Yes. Better. That line alone made something in me unclench. For a second. A breath. I kept going.

“She said my name like it was made of sugar.” “She touched my sleeve and everything inside me stopped.” “She told me I felt like a poem someone forgot to finish.”

More lies. But they felt warm. They felt like hope with teeth.

---

“Write her into something safe.” “Write her into something real.” “No. Write her into something that bleeds for you.” “She’s too wild. She’s not yours.” “Make her yours.” “Don’t ruin her.” “She’s already ruined. Look at her. She’s cracked in all the right places.”

My fingers trembled. I couldn’t tell if it was from exhaustion or excitement. She was becoming mine, on the page, at least. And if I wrote her enough… maybe she'd bleed into real life. Maybe she'd begin to see me.

---

But the poem I wrote turned darker. Uncontrolled. Slipping from love into ache.

“She begged me not to leave. Said the silence without me was unbearable.” “She wrapped her arms around me like I was oxygen.” “She said I was the only one who never asked her to be softer.”

None of it happened. But I believed it. I needed to believe it. Because if I stop believing, then she’s just a girl. Just a girl who didn’t notice me. And I am just a boy who noticed too much.

---

“You want her.” “You love her. “You want to own her.” “You want her locked in a glass box with a slit just big enough for your hand.” “You’d feed her love like it’s meat.” “You’re not in love. You’re starving.”

I pressed the backspace key. But the thoughts stayed.

---

“She came to my house in the rain, just to see me.” “She curled up in my bed like it belonged to her.” “She told me I make the dark feel warm.”

I wrote her again. And again. Version after version. Each one more desperate. Each one closer to obsession. Each one like trying to sculpt water into a perfect face, and then punch it for not staying still.

---

I printed one version and read it out loud. It made me feel like I was holding her. Like I had finally caged the wind. But then the panic came.

"What if she never reads this?” “What if she does and laughs?” “What if she finds it beautiful?” “What if she runs?” “What if she never knew how loud she is in your head?”

I folded the paper and hid it under my mattress. Because that’s what I do. I write her. I worship her. I ruin her. And then I bury the evidence.

---

“This isn’t love.” “It’s becoming something else.” “You’re becoming something else.”

But still, I opened a new page. Because she didn’t look at me today. And I need her to look tomorrow. Even if it’s only in the version I control.

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