You’ve been staring at each other for the past ten minutes, lost in each others irises. No one’s said anything at all. The actions are speaking for you anyways.

You love him. For some fucked up reason, you love him. You’ve wrote countless poems about him and his stupid face, tears falling onto the paper as the pen flicks. You hate what their about. You don’t show them to anyone. You guard them with your life. But the longer you bury the truth, the more it eats you up. You’re hopelessly in love with each other. you always have been.

“You smell nice.” He says, interrupting the silence. Here we go again.