Read My Secret Family :: Art

Max

110 kg and rising

I can't talk to her. She’s so powerful, so in control; like an awestruck child I'm shy and lame around her. I get along fine with other girls, I mean, I am the standard definition of normal, if there is such a thing, it's just that when I am around her everything seems like it has no meaning. I can't describe it exactly, I don't know if the words even exist. She invades every part of my mind at the same time.
She has annexed my imagination. She murders my sleep.
S o p h i e.
Her name rings the bells in the furthest church towers; the cool breeze of her walk leaves the air filled with bright summery scent.
Sophie hangs out with people I would not consider friendly, but I know she's not like them. I know that if I could just get her alone we would talk and connect and things would be better, for both of us. Her boyfriend, Luke, with his tribal tattoos and polished Harley, what a joke, if she only heard the things he said when she wasn't around. His sex jokes. His rape jokes. His laughter when he told his friends exactly what he did to her in explicit detail. To Sophie.
I know what you're thinking, I'm a trope hating on a trope. A stupid guy crushing on a beautiful girl who is probably too good for me, and you're probably right. I should probably not interfere with their relationship because it's none of my business. Sophie is more than capable of looking out for herself, she is.
But I can't do that.
I used to sit in the back of the cafeteria and draw her during recess without her knowing. And yes, I know that's creepy, thank you very much. Then she signed up for art class and I was overjoyed, overcome, it was an opportunity to get to know her, and now that I knew she loved art too I felt we could really be together. I had a spark of hope that she had joined the class because I was in it. Yes, I do know how psychotic that sounds.
I put aside all my doubts because I just had to talk to her, to explain my thoughts.
She disappeared from the room after catching me drawing her but all I could say as she walked past, coming back from somewhere else in the world and looking disturbed was, "Hey, are you losing weight?"
I wanted it to sound like a compliment, because it was, but I was also worried about her weight. I had been watching her for about a year, really observing her. I knew which shade of burgundy she used to dye her hair, saw the dye fade out and back to her natural orange. I had seen her jeans go from curve hugging to hanging from her hips by a belt. Her face had sharpened. Her arms no longer wobbled when she jogged. Given what I knew about who she was hanging out with I was worried about her emotional state as much as her weight. But then, who am I to judge?