The Hardest Thing

The second one:

It was the way he looked at her, every once and a while with a naughty spark in his eye. They way he reached across for something, accidentally brushing his skin with hers that sent shivers up her spine and made her heart beat a little faster. And when he stood dangerously close she could feel the heat radiate from his body into hers, melting her in just the right places. But these moments were all covetous. Secret pleasures consumed like forbidden chocolates and kept only to oneself. Because he rarely ever spoke to her, approached her directly. And that was the one thing that kept her from believing. The one thing that separated illusion from reality. And she knew deep down that the wanting was all in vain.

The hardest thing is to love someone who doesn't love you back.

The first love:

He whispered as he kissed her; softly at first, then gradually increasing with delicious hunger. As if no one could ever give him what needed; except for her. It was moments like those that made her feel as if she was the most important thing in the world. Like they were made for each other, and without their relationship the world was a cold, cruel place. It took plenty more of these occasions before she realized what was happening. She was his soft drug. Sometimes he needed her, sometimes he didn't. In between he would try others but always come back to her. And when he did have her, it was like he wanted nothing else. It made her feel strong and weak at the same time. To know that you were needed; it built you up, gave you a sense of power. But to also know that it was never constant, never always, it was mostly sometimes, and always maybe. That was what brought her down, and what kept her away. Although, she reasoned, sometimes she was exactly the same. At least that's what she liked to think.

The hardest thing is to love someone who used to love you.

The first: She knew deep down that there would always be that small link to him. One part of her that would love him forever. But it was old love; the kind that cannot be changed, and would forever remain where it was: in the past.

The second: He was everything she could never have, but wanted so badly. His eyes, pale blue and watchful. His mouth, sensitive and beautiful. His hair, playful and fun. He was perfect in all his flaws; and that was what she loved most.

But duty calls. And this is war. There's no love other than that which gave birth to the hatred that fueled this bloody battle. What was real was the terror, and pain, and despair that rippled through the hearts of many, as they faced each new day with the knowledge that death was so close his rattling breath echoed along the borders of consciousness.

Maybe that's where this lustful weakness came from. The need for security and trust in a world where everyone you pass by is just another stranger you'd rather not know. Not just because they could be spies, but mainly out of fear of getting to know someone and then losing them in an instant. It just wasn't done anymore.

And there was so much she wanted to say, to anybody who would listen. Anybody who could understand how hard it was to hold on to this cracking bottle inside. She wanted so much, needed so much, yet had nothing. And it killed her.

NO, she would remain exactly where she was needed. She would say the right things, and smooth everything out, like she always did. She would do everything that was expected of her, and more.