She didn’t want to be loved. In fact, she often spoke of her intense desire to find the exact opposite. She didn’t believe in being wooed, nor that she could, though not for want of trying. Not for want of suitors.
I wanted her. More than I wanted anything else, more than I wanted air, more than I craved food, I craved her. Dreams of her touch, the scent of her hair, figments of her personality crawled into the innermost recesses of my heart and touched me, changed me. She had crept into my mind like a phantom, and I called the Ghostbusters, sprung the trap, contained this phantom and swore to never release it.
He knew her for a night. Not even a night, less than a night, two, three hours, tops. He didn’t know how to appreciate her. She didn’t care. She would ask me why he wasn’t asking about her, tell me how he didn’t call and then squeal when he did. I was on the wrong end of the scoreboard long before I knew there were other players in this game. I saw him kiss her, hold her, win her. I wasn’t even close..