“I wish I could find someone like you.”

Easily the most haunting words of Spencer’s life.

The night you had said them to him, he became plagued. The stolen looks, lingering touches, prolonged eye contact, seeking each other out in crowds; he thought that had all meant something, cause it sure as hell meant something to him. The times your hand would slip its way into his, head rested on his shoulder. Did you not see what you were doing to him?

He’d persistently expressed his worry about your boyfriend (now ex-boyfriend), always worrying that there was just something off about him. He’s always picking out a minuscule detail that prevails to be something much greater. But he could never be mad at you for not listening to his warnings, opting to always blame the shit people you dated that used you for one thing or the other.

When you said you wanted someone like him, he felt his heart constrict painfully in his chest, a wave of humiliation drenching him in embarrassment and self-pity. But, he still couldn’t be upset with you. It had to have been his fault someone. He was certain he wasn’t good enough for you, maybe not good-looking enough in your eyes, or he lacked money, experience, something that made you not want him like he wanted you.

Spencer’s house was empty, a subtle reminder of the agony he felt thinking about you. Overwhelmed by the silence, he hurried out of the house, begging for answers to fill the lingering hole in his heart you had inadvertently carved out, locked away in your room where it had all happened.

Clumsily, he pulled himself up to your window, lightly tapping on the glass. A dam broke the moment he saw you, cheerful and smiles, a complete contrast to the torment he was experiencing. Once the window was open, words were tumbling out.

“Why ‘someone like me’?” he abruptly asked, perched on the windowsill. His eyes were pleading, helplessly searching yours. The circles under his eyes were worse than usual but his eyes softer than ever, desperate to make sense of it all.