I wish she would be able to notice me, standing there at every one of her group’s concerts, there at every one of their meet and greets, there at their mansion, watching her, thinking about what we could be if she only glanced my way for once.

When she does talk about me though, I’m only called “the stalker.” I want her to say my name, to know of my existence, to know about how much I desperately want her.

It’s like she purposefully ignores me, like she knows that I want her, that I need her, and it’s like she wants to watch me crumble, to watch me fail to get her over and over again.

I took my phone out to get a picture of her through the window. That smile, the gleam in her eyes when she laughs…it’s so beautiful. I want her to do that for me, I want to be the reason the laughs, the reason her day brightens.

I stared at the picture for a while, taking in the features I’ve known for so long, and looked back at the window and at the real deal, who was still cooking and talking to her other group members.

I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy flow through me at the fact that she could talk to them so well and not even look twice at me. I want her to talk to me as casually as that. I want her to be that happy around me, but she won’t, and I’m not sure if that will change.

Maybe she’ll never want me, but I can’t live with that fact. I’m going to keep trying until she finally gives in, until she finally gives me what I need.