Everyone's at your house again. Or should I say her house. She basically owns you now; her ownership might as well include your house too.
All of us are here; the entire god damned pack is jammed into her tiny kitchen. We just got back from running patrols and you invited the entire pack for lunch. Lovely.
I stand back, resting my back on the doorjamb as she flits around the kitchen tending to all the guys; flattening the back of Collin's hair, slapping Paul's hand with her wooden spoon for taking another muffin before everyone has had one, pinching Quil's cheeks, running back over to the oven to take the next batch of muffins out of the oven.
I fucking hate those muffins.
You love them; another thing that's changed about you.
As soon as she opens the oven door, you run over and stand behind her, protecting her like some leech is just going to jump out from the oven and sparkle her to death. Setting the hot tin down onto the counter, she shuts the oven door and waits for the muffins to cool, ignoring how your arms creep around her waist and how your head is nuzzling the crook of her neck. She leans back into you with a content smile on her face—your face has a smile to match.
You're happy. You both are.
I have to look away; I can't stand seeing you two together.
Looking around the kitchen, I remember when I saw myself taking her role. I was the one baking for you, preparing to marryyou.
Sometimes, I still pretend. I pretend that this whole thing is just a bad dream and when I wake up everything will be different. You weren't missing for two weeks, the legends were still legends, you never were with her, and we're still together, planning a future together. Talking about our wedding, our future kids, about buying a house.
But it's not just a dream. No matter how badly I wish for it not to be, this is real. We turn into monsters and I'm all alone. I'm alone because you're with her. Because she was "the one."
I have to open my eyes every single time and remind myself:
This is not my beautiful house.
You are not my wonderful fiancé.
You are hers. Completely and utterly hers.
All because of that look.
God I hate that look. I hate seeing you two together.
I hate seeing you with her.
I hate seeing how fucking happy you are with her.
Whenever you look at her, you get this look on your face that says, by choice or not, you would do anything for her. You would kill yourself if she asked you to, if it would make her happy.
Because that's all you want now; to make her happy, to make sure she's safe.
I absolutely hate seeing that.
I hate seeing that look in your eye that says that you want nothing but her.
I hate that you never looked at me like that.
I hate how I have to see you give her that look every day and wonder why I wasn't, and will never be, enough for you.
Why does she get to have you? What makes her so special? She wasn't the one who stayed with you for three weeks while you had the chickenpox! She wasn't the one who tutored you in math so that you could boost your GPA enough for an acceptance at UW! She wasn't the one who sacrificed every Saturday to help your mom at home because her bum knee and hip were acting up!
I was the one who was there for you. I was the one who took care of you. I was the one who was worried when you disappeared for two weeks. I was the one who put up posters, made search parties, and called the police, praying that someone had found you, that you were okay.
Yet you still shower her with affection. You drown her with this look and ignore me. Pity me.
Not wanting to watch you with her anymore, I push myself off of the doorjamb and swiftly make my way outside. Once outside, I strip in the bushes.
It doesn't bother me that none of the guys have noticed that I left. It doesn't even bother me that you didn't notice I left.
No, what bothers me is that while you were looking at her with that look, I was looking at you with real love in my eyes, a look that shows how I choose not to give up on you, how I choose to still love you.
I chose to love you while you were forced to love her and your look still made mine seem insignificant.
With that thought I feel my anger boil over and I phase, ready to run and try and forget that look.
I run and try to forget that no matter what I do, the way I look at you will always be insignificant.