It’s like Carl Gallagher is the sun and you’re just some satellite constantly orbiting, trying to feel warm in his light.

You swear, everything he does makes your heart ache in the most annoying, beautiful way—like when he laughs that real laugh, the one where his eyes crinkle and he forgets to act tough for a second. And you notice every little thing—how he always ties his shoes a little too tight, how he zones out when he's thinking hard, how he’ll casually throw his arm over your shoulder like it’s nothing, when to you it feels like everything.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? To you, it is everything. And to him? You can’t tell. He’ll call you “baby” like it’s just another word, and he kisses you like he means it…

but there’s this weird emptiness when he pulls away, like maybe he was somewhere else in his head. Like maybe you’re temporary, a pit stop on his way to someone he’ll look at and just know. You want to be that girl.

God, you want to be that girl. But no matter how much love you pour into him, no matter how many times you memorize the sound of his heartbeat, it always feels like you’re just a chapter in his story, when he’s your whole damn book.