| Current mood: |  lonely |
Ah hell, I still love him so much. I spent last night imagining I was in his arms, pressed against his chest.
I read some of Emma Shaw's old letters from school and uni back again last night. I was such an idiot. I read them now, with the benefit of distance and time and realise what a bloody idiot I was. And Emma is my friend who is not apt to over-exaggeration like Maria is, but they both told me the same things, for years, thing that I was too afraid to believe that now seem so obvious.
I wonder what he felt, who he talked to. What he thought about when he thought of me, how his body felt when he was looking at me with that wonderful light in his eyes. Everybody could see that in him, the way his face changed, the way I made him more beautiful. They didn't think we looked wrong together, but right. And when we spoke together no one wanted to interrupt us incase they were stumbling on something private.
I didn't dare believe he loved me then, but now I think I know, and I think I understand. He'll always be my first love, even if he isn't my first lover and so he'll always be with me, and I hope I'll always be with him. I'm just praying that he's not unhappy, and that he'll be ok. He's too proud to say anything to anyone, so I just have to hope.
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