Inspired by Jealousy, by Lang Laev.
It was the way
You spoke about her.
With animosity, regret, disdain
And underneath it all-
Just a hint of pride.
It was the way he talked about her: soft, warm, melodic and with a smile that reached his eyes. Like she was the perfect girl he’d been waiting for all his life. “You’ll love her,” he said. If only she were mine, his eyes said. And his eyes dropped, hiding fire and hurt.
I tell him I don’t want to love her. Let them all love her- she’s our friend’s girlfriend, after all. She may be brilliant, and beautiful, but she broke his heart. She’s the reason he’s hollow inside. She’s the reason everything is shattering. She’s the reason he almost didn’t want it all, and that’s enough reasons to hate her. I hate her, not because he loves her. I hate her because she doesn’t love him.
“She worked for Greenpeace,” he said, “her favourite animal is a penguin.” His voice is barely a whisper, but it’s enough to pull my heart. “She’s going to apply for peace corps, soon. She’s also worked for children’s rights.” I never deserved her, his demeanour speaks for him. “Besides, she’s hot, yeah?” I ask him, smiling bitterly. His eyes light up for a bit, “Oh, yeah.” “Why didn’t you tell me before, Fred?” He looks up at me, and my heart skips a bit. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to jinx it when I thought I was going to have her, and later…” he trailed off. “You didn’t want to show how broken you were,” I whispered.
How could I not hate her? She was tender, and beautiful, and strong, and everything about her hurt him. The way her eyes shine and her lips are always curved upwards in an otherworldly smile, and her sing-song voice and her brilliant mind, and her heart with a thousand rooms. And I knew why he didn’t tell me about her. It’s the same reason I didn’t tell them about us: a façade built just for me. And how could I not hate her? She worked with children, and I worked for a big corporate selling lies for a living, and came home spilling lies onto a computer screen, for thousands of people to entertain themselves with. I was just Scarlett O’Hara and she was Melanie. He was the Ashley Wilkins neither of us could get. And I sip my wine with gritted teeth because she’s too good, but too bad for him. And he’s wasting on her, riding high for what’s not his. And all I can see is his lows, and his blues, casting a red light on my heart.
I looked at him, and realised that he may not get over it, even if he told me he is. It’s his friend, and he’ll always see them happy together, and it’ll remind him of his own misery. I realised how I hurt in the month and a half I didn’t talk to him, and I understood that he’s going to be hurting the rest of his life. And I wanted to envelope him in a hug, and tell him it’ll be alright, but I knew if I did, it’d be the end of me. But I did. I did it to make him better, and I saw the first smile breaking his beautiful face, and I fell deeper into the pit. But I was alright, because I found a new story to write. All was well.
One last segment left.