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A GW fan fic: Still Waiting
Author's notes: I'm going through a bad phase. Angst piece; it'd be too depressing to dedicate it to the one who sparked this story off. Feel free to guess who's who.
You know, it's a sad, sorry thing when you candidly admit to yourself that your beau is a bastard. An intelligent, talented bastard, but a tactless bastard all the same. Love can be a sucky thing. I'm sorry, it's rude to dump on you like this without warning, but you understand, right? It's easier to talk to a stranger.
You know what people say about masks? You weave a lie around yourself and wear it like a cloak so people won't ever see your true heart. They can't hurt what they can't see. The strongest among us wear no masks. They wear their scars with quiet dignity, moving on through each hurtful word, each painful action from another. I'm not that strong. It's surprising what you find hiding behind the smiles, the easy laughter and conversation or brooding grouchiness of a stranger. You see, everyone has a simple child inside that merely wants attention. Love.
Hm? Oh, yeah, that's true. There are many variations of meanings on that word. Love. Motherly love, sisterly love, romantic love. Heck, people have written books on the subject. Novels, research papers and whatnot. Funny how humans always try to turn something so simple into a complex tangle of a puzzle, huh?
Myself, I've always thought of love as something very simple. I love you, you love me; we'll both work on being happy. But he doesn't quite get that. There has to be conditions. Remember what I said about masks? I set mine aside when I met him, I allowed him to see my true face, hear my true thoughts and feelings. And what did he say? I don't know you. He really knows how to twist the knife in. A nice, rusty old blade. So, okay, fair enough, I'll let you get to know me. We became friends. Never a mention of affection beyond that of comrades.
Do you think I was wrong to want something more?
I asked him, one day, you see. He started off with the whole 'I don't know you' thing again, which was unfair. But I hung on, even though I wanted to run. So we settled into a grey area where we were more than friends, but considerably less than lovebirds. Friends of ours preferred to think the latter, and we allowed them to think that. But it was an unsaid agreement that there would be no sweet words, no nicknames and nothing beyond brief shows of affection within the boundaries of platonic touches and hugs.
I asked him again, when we seemed to be drifting apart. He wasn't talking to me, really talking, you see. Trivial matters like 'hi, how are you, what did you do?' don't count as proper conversation in my book. So after much procrastinating, he tells me he doesn't know how much he cares. He doesn't know whether he can or is in love with me. He didn't say it, but I could see the hidden messages that told me he was going to run if I mentioned how deep my feelings ran. That bloody well hurt. So I smiled and danced around the topic, hoping he would appreciate the freedom, hoping he would give me an answer I could accept. Stupid, yes.
I got tired of that.
And so, I've asked him yet again. He still doesn't know. I'm tired of making it easy, tired of being relegated last in his long list of things to do. I know he cares, but it isn't enough. I've told him quite plainly, that I'm fed up. Either he holds up his end of responsibility and repair what we have, or I'm gone. We can stay friends.
I want an answer. You don't even have to say 'I love you' if you're uncomfortable with it. I have plenty of patience. Okay, so you're unsure. I'll give you time. You tell me to wait here under the trees where we meet every night, so I wait. Night after night until the sun lightens the sky, and tomorrow becomes today.
I'm still waiting, you bastard.
One of these days, I won't be waiting any more.
(© May 2001 by Stargem)
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