The Complications of Tag Graham

Tag Graham.
His white-blonde hair is unsettling, almost hurtful to look at.
His blue eyes are too bright, too eager, when he looks at me, too dark.
His smile is conniving, tricking me every time.
He deceives me, and then I know he’s not worth all the pain, the confusion, the tears.
When he does something right, something that makes me love him all over again, more than before, I forgive him silently.
Even though he doesn’t ever say sorry.
Even though he doesn’t know he did anything wrong.
He doesn’t know how much I want him.
He doesn’t know how much it hurts to watch him, smiling at a pretty girl that won’t ever be me.
I see him, sneaking glances at me.
I know he cares, even if he has too much pride to admit it.
At the end of each day, when I see him, I think: what do I love about you so much?
I never have answered that question.
Subconsciously, maybe.
I don’t like the answer.
I know I’ll never be with him.
I’m fine with it, too.
But I still love him, I still watch him, I still pretend to be the smart girl that he gives attention, but will never be the one he wants for real.
I know he’s mean.
I know he’s nasty, cruel, unkind, callous, uncaring, malicious, despicable, unpleasant, shameful, poor.
I know all the synonyms describe him well, I know.
I ignore them.
Because I like pretending Tag Graham is the boy that will choose me.
One day, I will think he’s the worst, most disgraceful boy in the word.
The next day, I will love him, looking at his pretty face that has modeling potential, and think: maybe it’s you; maybe you’re the one.
And I fall for him all over again, just when I’ve built up a wall to stop him from coming back in.
Then one of those bad days happens, and he screws everything up again.
I know I’ll never be with him, I know all these things, but I love him from afar anyway.
I’m content with that; I know it’s all I will ever get from him.
These are the complications of Tag Graham.