Telling me I look beautiful, he made me so happy and uncharacteristically peaceful that my aura should've been a softly visible shade of glowing gold. Longing grew every time his hazel eyes knocked me breathless. His hand smoothed out the apprehension in mine; his strong arms that wrapped around me in a goodbye hug left my insides quavery and my heart throbbing with hope.

It was wrong of him to keep me waiting, hoping he'd call. He should have known better then to hold hands with her while sitting across from me at the school lunch table. He should have recognised my face going blank, and how I pretended I couldn't see it. Stopped talking to me, sat at a different table, not flirted with me when she wasn't there. He needed to tell me he didn't like me as much as her, and that's how it was going to be.

Now, two months later, I'm sitting on my bed, writing this, feeling slightly bitter that I haven't even looked at anyone else while I stupidly wished he would change his mind I could have found someone who thought I was cute and funny and worthy of a relationship without the scanty silk dress.

I grit my teeth as I think of how he hasn't called me since then, how he hasn't stopped by even once to see how I'm doing.

You know what? The next time he needs a backup date, the next time he wants to flirt behind her back, I'll be busy. He can keep his tall, blonde, beautifully striking and flighty girlfriend. Tomorrow, I'm going to wear my low-cut sundress, flirt, and be obscene. I don't need him to keep washing out my paper cuts with saltwater...

...and maybe, just maybe, it will show him exactly what he's missing.