Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight, nor to I own anything related to Post-Secret. I am not writing this to offend anyone, especially the person(s) that write their secrets and then are brave enough to send them in to this awesome creation of Frank Warren.
The secrets are inspiring more than anything and I am attempting to pay tribute, if I offend, I sincerely apologize to each and every one of you.
Visit Postsecret(.)com to see more secrets like the one that inspired this short story.
Post-Secret from 1/23/11 update: I'm single lonely. Sometimes I leave the T.V. on ESPN so it feels like I'm with a guy.
Twilight Stats: B/E, AU, AH
He's there again…
He's there every night from 5:30 to 7:30. That's when she tends to turn the TV back to E! or some other girly-shit TV show.
I never see him leave, then again, I never see him arrive either. But damn, it bugs me that he's there.
I don't even know his name, but I know hers; Bella. It means beautiful, but I can't for the life of me remember where I heard that. Is that corny?
She's gorgeous, but she obviously had no freaking idea how pretty she is. She wears her hair pulled back and barely has makeup on when I see her. She wears this ridiculously baggy hoodie that hides her curves that I have only had a chance to see once or twice when she runs to the laundry room in her pajamas.
She's the reason I haven't given up smoking. I could care less if I smoked each night, but that's my excuse to be around outside to see her come and go.
She smiles when she sees me though, each and every time she passes me to get to her apartment door, but she doesn't talk much. Some whispered 'hellos,' some small weather chit chat shit. That's all, but I live for that, just to hear her voice.
That's why I'm out here again. It's 43 degrees outside and I'm out here freezing my fricking ass off, just hoping that she comes outside for a moment. Maybe today, I could speak to her, but then again I'd probably just end up running in to him.
He's probably some exotic type; big figure and tan skin. Or maybe, a body builder type with massive muscles, ones that I couldn't develop in ten lifetimes. No, actually she's probably into a southern boy, with a Texas-drawl.
It's sad how obsessed I am, I know, but god, I can't help it.
Every damn night Sports Center plays in her living room; I can hear it through my freaking wall, but I never hear her. She giggles from far away; the bedroom maybe? I hear cooking occasionally, but she never responds to the ESPN news like she does to her sitcoms or dramas. Hell, the girl busts out with the most wicked comments when the celebrity news comes on.
The girl has a mouth. Damn, she has a mouth; beautiful, but foul talking. The best of both worlds.
I chuck the book at the counter; I just cannot concentrate on it right now. My patience is just plain gone.
I walk past the bathroom, cutting over to my kitchen to grab a snack and then head back into my bedroom and sit at my desk.
He's there again, just smoking cigarette after cigarette. I swear he goes through a pack a night, and even though it's a disgusting, awful habit he makes it look hot as hell.
He can't see me from the place I'm sitting; behind my blinds with just a tiny opening aimed right at his form. Granted, I don't think I'd be too disappointed if he saw me, just embarrassed.
Royally embarrassed, because he's beautiful and I want him more than anything.
I admit that I'm lonely and probably only because I don't go out to look for anyone. And I don't look for anyone, because I already know who I want, him.
But being lonely sucks. That's probably why I leave ESPN on each night while I work or clean or cook so it feels less lonely, so it feels like he's around.