She was tired of it. Tired of the old-familiar routine she does whenever he was in sight. She hated spacing out. She hated the fact that each days spent seeing him only shows how undeniably one-sided and unrequited the feelings are. She hated his insensitivity. She hated hoping for that day when he would suddenly approach her. She hated seeing no hints at all that he might feel the same way, too.
She hated to be the one who always stares and never the one who is gazed at. She hated familiarizing the sounds of his footsteps. She hated planning the chances just for their paths to cross and seeing him look unhappy with those chances.
She was tired. And she hated being tired but she was.
So she struggles to forget. And finally, she has.
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He was tired of it. Tired of pretending that he didn’t care at all whenever she’s around. Tired of the boringly familiar routines he does to deceive her from his real feelings. He hated how coward he was to approach knowing he wasn’t good enough for her. He hated how he feared the pain of rejection the moment he starts to talk to her. He hated feeling presumptuous that maybe she feels the same way, too.
He hated not glancing when all night long he stares at her picture in his wallet. He hated how he couldn’t tell her how she completes his day. He hated the numerous chances freely given of them crossing paths for him to tell her his feelings and another wasted chance.
He was tired and he was sick of it. Sick of pretending.
So now, he moves to be happy. And it was too late.
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