When I’m at home, when I turn my music up and shut the world out, when I scream into my pillow, I usually think about her.
About her messy, black hair, that grew since I met her. She usually wears it in a knot close to her neck or it just falls over her small shoulders, framing her face.
I hug myself and imagine her embracing me, holding me at my ripcage and nuzzeling into the curve of my neck.
I imagine her shy smile, when I tell her what I feel for her. When I tell her what I hold inside and how her raspy, melodic voice stabs me.
I imagine her hands on my hips. Her lips on the tip of my nose. Her fingers entangeled in my hair. Her voice in my head.
She’s my last thought before I fall asleep, leading me into a few hours of peace and she’s the first one on my mind when I wake up.
To me, it feels as if we’ve spent a whole lifetime together.
But when she sees me, she only nods and I smile at her.
No matter how much she ignores me and no matter how oblivious she is about my feelings for her, I will always smile at her.
I smile, because of everything that we’ve been through in my imagination. Every smile, every fight, every kiss, evey stare.
And sometimes, she gives me one of her prescious, shy smiles and I know why I still imagine her.