-You Don't Know Her-

You hear the bell ring, gather your things and push into the crowded halls on your way to fourth period.  You pause to say hey to a guy on your football team: you exchange high-fives and good-luck's for today's after-school game before saying goodbye and continuing on.  Several yards off, she's standing in the doorway of her class: you don't see her.  You almost never do, and sometimes she prefers it this way.  You don't know that she's loved you since freshmen year.  How could you?  You've only spoken to her once, and she had been blushing furiously the entire time, glancing at her friends, afraid to be her usual loud, friendly self because your handsome face made her melt.
She wants to catch your eye, just for a moment.  She peers through the throng of students, curiosity and longing lilting upon her heart-shaped countenance.  She watches as you brush your golden-brown hair from your face, roll up the sleeves of your sweatshirt.  You glance inadvertently over your shoulder for a moment, and you meet her gaze.  She has blonde hair: it falls just below her collarbones, and her curves are soft, but she doesn't believe she's pretty, thinks she's not good enough for you; she's afraid that you look right through her.  She sucks in a breath, her heart flutters as your blue eyes meet her own.  

She wants you to smile at her.

Just a smile, the shy smile you do best.  She wants to talk to you, she wants you to know that she is not just another body in the halls.  She's an artist.  She's a writer.  She can do brilliant things with a pencil.  She's not like the other girls.
But you'll never know, because you turn your head away again.
You don't smile.
You don't slow your pace and ask to walk her to her next class.


…You don't because you don't know her.