Watch Me

I didn't think it was weird, just the way I am. I watch people. I watch you. But if it comes out of your mouth, it must be true.

You said it was weird, but you looked flattered and your lips quirked up at the sides. You didn’t mind your dorm mate being weird.

I know this because I watch you.

The movement of your hands, the way you write. It reveals more than anything you could say aloud.

I have always studied people, watched their movements and unintentional expressions. I love being able to read people.

Not one, even my most interesting subjects, compared to you, though.

No one’s smile is brighter, eyes more beautiful. It is just a fact. There is no way anyone is better looking than you. And everyone around you sees it.

Because I watch, I know.

I know that running your hands over the tattoos there calms you down, that you desperately want to understand math, that you play Pansy more than you admit.

Your body relaxes minutely, your brow furrows and you almost beg the homework silently to make sense. Because the pick on your bedside table is wearing down slowly.

It is just the small things that I watch. I don’t follow you or anything. We are just roommates at a stuck-up college.

I want to know everything about you, though.

Because I think I am falling in love.

I can’t help but watch helplessly as your smile makes my legs feel like jello, every accidental brush up against me makes my heart race. My breathing and brain stop.

You probably think I am mute.

So I just watch the little things, smiling at you like the love-struck fool I am.

Everything you do lets me find out more about you. The China set you made dinner on the first time, swearing it’s a one time thing.

Which is good because no matter how well you do everything else, I never really did like eating charcoal.

Everything you do tells me more than a diary ever could. Or maybe everything you do is a diary. An unwritten one.

You may fool everyone else with your blinding smile, but I can see he hurt you. No one else watches closely enough to see the slight limp on your right side and how your face twitches like it wants to flinch whenever anyone raises their hand. Even your friends.

But I do.

No matter how good you are at putting on the make-up that covers your bruises, I know the color of your real skin. The make-up can’t match your regular glowing tone.

I want to stop your pain, I know it is your boyfriend who is doing this to you.

Somehow, through the pain, your eyes manage to light up.

He beats you because he loves you.

What a load of bullshit.

Every pose you make at me when I send you a questioning look dares me to tell you otherwise. That you won’t listen anyway.

I know.

“Please, Frankie. Listen to me. If he lays hands on you, it. Is. Not. Love.” It slips out and I know how you will react before you even do.

“What would you know about it? He loves me! I just keep messing up. Okay? Why do you care? It’s not like you know anything about love!” I know you will regret saying it in the morning, no matter how true you think it is. You hate hurting your friends. But in this moment, and maybe every after. You believe it.

“Because I know I love you.” Shit. Even in my three months of knowing you, being friends, watching you, I don’t know how you will react.

So punching me in the face is a surprise.

I have never seen you so angry, I know I have crossed a line I didn’t know existed.

For all my watching, all the small things, I am still the mute weirdo who is your roommate.

I don’t feel it, but the tears come anyway as I lay on the floor.

‘If he lays a hand on you, it. Is. Not. Love. If he lays a hand on you, it. Is. Not. Love. If he lays a hand on you, it. Is. Not. Love.’

“If he lays a hand on you, it. Is. Not. Love.” I did know your voice could sound like a knife, used like one, but until it was aimed at me I didn’t realize how deep it could cut.

It was what I get, when in a battle between my heart and mind, it is what I get for letting my heart win.

I knew you would be sorry for it in the morning, but you would never apologize.

I didn’t know you well enough to guess you wouldn’t come back to your dorm for a week.

I felt so bad I didn’t bother to cover the bruise you made or the sadness I felt.

I know you think I’m almost pretty much mute, but my close friends and family noticed my sadness and lack of talking.

The next time you came back through the dorm door I had been drawing. You, actually. Everything about you, it was kind of a self-portrait. I was trying to get in your head, draw you as you were.

You came in as quietly as you could, but I was wide awake.

I found it hard to fall asleep without your steady breathing I had become accustomed to hearing.

You looked horrible, no amount of make-up would cover the bruises on you face, neck, and hands. That was all I could see. Your lip was bleeding and I found myself holding an icepack and a warm wash-cloth.

It wasn’t the right time to apologize, we both knew it.

So we didn’t.

I helped you get out of your shredded and bloodied shirt and you held the ice-pack to your face.

I wanted to ask, but it didn’t seem like the right time. But for a situation like this, there will never be a ’right time.’

“What-”

I didn’t expect you to burst out crying. My hand was on your stomach, but lightly so it couldn’t be that. But, why…?

I didn’t expect you to kiss me.

Neither did you if your running away into the bathroom was any indication.