I'm a creep and you're so special.

Her dressing table is an orderly army of beauty cosmetics I've never seen before. I used to think that there was just lipstick and blush. Who knew there was a way to paint almost every feature of your face? What even made her think that she needed any of that stuff anyway? Her hairbrush lies neatly beside her perfumes, a few strands of copper hair stuck between the bristles. I wrap my hands around the brass drawer-handles and slowly pull the drawers open, revealing the small stack of notebooks and jewelry that is always in the same place each night.

I pick up the red Moleskine and open at a random page. It's her diary,

"I hate this. This long, grey drizzle of blunt rain, clouding my mind of any feeling whatsoever. I wish it would end. I wish it would go away and never come back, leaving only streaks of sunshine to light up my mind."

I put the notebook back, feeling slightly like an intruder in her mind as I always do when I read a new entry. I have been taking away with me pieces of her that aren't rightfully mine, but at the same time, I'm glad that I have discovered more of her. The pretty ones are always the most misunderstood. It's ironic; the most perfect girl in the world is actually a mess on the inside. I feel somewhat sorry for her, but also a sense of responsibility. I'm the only one who knows her secrets, and therefore, she needs me.

I move over to the side of her bed, a tall but narrow structure of black iron and fluffy, cloud-like pillows.

Her eyeballs move around beneath their lids, she must be dreaming. Her hands are half open and facing the ceiling, like she has fallen off a building but has never hit the ground. Her stillness amazes me, how can one be so statuesque even while asleep? She's a beauty. Her brown hair twists into messy tangles under her. Tied into buns each night to gain those perfect curls she carries so well every day. I should know.

She inhales a little deeper than before, I stiffen, worried that she might wake to find me standing over her, watching her angelic beauty while she is lost in slumber. That wouldn't be good. That would cause trouble. I wouldn't be allowed to visit her anymore if that happened. She mutters a few words, but I don't understand them. That annoys me, that does. When I lose the chance to grasp onto any single thread of her dreams. If only I knew what she said. Then I'd somehow taste a sliver of her dream, too, and we'd be closer together.

I decide to play my favourite game: I reach out towards her and flatly hover my hands over her body and see how close I can get to her skin without actually touching her. I lay my hands over her kneecaps, a few centimeters distance. I drag them up her thighs, and lower them slightly as I reach her hips. I want to hold her waist, but I cannot risk waking her up. I lower them even more so as my fingers reach her face, I have to control my urge to trace the bridge of her nose, the outline of her lips, stroke the lashes that line her eyes. I like this game. It helps me practice self-control.

She turns her head over to the other side, still asleep, but obviously more awake than she was since I first creeped into the room. She could be waking. I check the time; 2:37am. I'd better get out of here.

Tonight's visit was a little shorter than most nights, but I don't mind as long as I get to come back tomorrow night, and the night after. She sees me in school but she doesn't say hi, she doesn't even know my name. 
She doesn't know how close we really are, but that's okay.
Because I do.