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My mom’s words come back to me. I don’t want you to have a broken heart. She knew
what would happen. There was always going to be someone else. Someone who isn’t sick.
Someone who can leave her house. Someone he can talk to and touch and kiss and
everything else.
I stifle the urge to go back to the window and assess my competition. But it’s not a
competition if one person can’t even show up for the event. And it doesn’t matter what
she looks like. It doesn’t matter if she’s long- or short-legged. It doesn’t matter if she’s
pale or tanned, if her hair is black or brown or red or blond. It doesn’t matter if she’s
pretty or not.
It matters that she feels the sun on her skin. She breathes unfiltered air. It matters that
she lives in the same world that Olly does, and I don’t. I never will.
I take another peek. Her hand is still on his shoulder and she’s still laughing. He’s
frowning up at my window, but I’m sure he can’t see me. He waves anyway, but I duck
down again, pretending to both of us that I’m not there.