Hers

The feel of his fingertips grazing my skin ever so slowly drove me close to madness. The way he would touch me so teasingly raised bumps on my arms and legs as a sigh of satisfaction that I had been trying to keep in so desperately almost escaped my lips. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I enjoyed his soft caresses against my thighs and the gentle kisses he'd leave on my neck, his lips lingering for long seconds.

He placed one of those kisses I enjoyed so much onto the back of my hand, our legs intertwining under the sheets as our bodies pressed against each other's as much as possible. The feel of his skin against mine almost felt surreal, as if I were dreaming at that moment. The way he gazed at me with deep, chestnut eyes made words escape me. Just the shade of brown the dawn sunlight filtering through the curtains made his eyes shine could have been enough to make my heart pound excessively. Those dark, brown eyes, as dark as the richest of soils, said a thousand words to me.

"You're beautiful," his eyes seemed to say. "No one else compares."

My hand found its way to the side of his face and cupped his cheek as I brought my lips to his. I gave him a chaste kiss but long enough to tell him I loved him without speaking. I loved him, with all of my being. I wanted to show him how much I did, through star gazings and picnicks and movie nights. I wanted him to know that I wanted him to be mine.

His phone began buzzing on the nightstand behind him. He turned to pick it up as I turned my back to him. I knew who it was; there was no denying that she'd get worried about him. He hadn't been home that night, as he'd been with me, so of course, any loving wife would get worried. I listened to him talk to her then, how he told her that he was all right, that he had decided to stay at my apartment, talking about me as if I were just a friend. But in reality, that was all I was to him and to her– just his old, high school friend.

"I'll be home soon," he told her, and I could feel my heart clench at the sound of 'soon.'

I wanted to tell him not to leave. I wanted to roll back around to face him, wrap my arms around him, and whisper, "Don't leave so soon." But I knew he had to go; I knew what his wife was like. I was her best friend, so of course, I knew. But maybe she'd changed. It had been two years since their wedding that I had ever spoken to her. She never knew how I felt. I only forced the best, most sincere-looking smile I could muster and tell her with all the energy I had that I was happy for her. Maybe she still worried about things too much, just as she had when I was feigning congratulation to her. She seemed suspicious; maybe she did know. Maybe she'd learned to let go a little. Who knew? I didn't.

"She's worried about me," he groaned, the rustle of the sheets and the creaking of the bed springs indicating that he was going to leave.

Quickly, almost panicking, searching in my brain for a way to make him stay even just a couple more minutes, I turned back around to face him and grabbed ahold of his arm. I wrapped my arms around it, wishing that that tan, muscular arm was the one to wake me up every morning, snake its way around my waist while I cook, hug me when me needed comforting. I wished so badly that he didn't have to go. I could feel my eyes start to sting as I buried my face as best as I could in the crook of his elbow, but my tears never sprang forth.

"Please don't go. Just a couple more minutes, please," I whispered, trying my best to hide the fact that I was so desperate for him.

"Sorry, I have to," he started, chuckled slightly. "She'd kill me if I didn't show."

And I knew then that she was still the same, and I loosened my grip around his arm. He pulled away, changing back into the clothes I had slowly, painstakingly stripped off him the night before. I watched his movements from where I sat in the middle of the King-sized bed, amidst the sheets we had lied in just moments prior. My body fell onto the mattress, my head coming in contact with the pillow his head was resting on. The cologne he wore and his natural scent punched me, both in my stomach and my heart. I ached to wake up to that scent every morning and fall asleep to it every night. I felt my eyes prick with tears once more as I watched him begin to exit the bedroom.

"I'll see you around," he said as he waved goodbye.

I waved back until he was out of side. It wasn't until I heard the click of the opening of the apartment door and the shutting of it that the tears I had been holding back began to roll down my cheeks and nose. I reached for the sheets and wrapped them around my frame, burying myself in the lingering scent of what he and I were. Tears kept streaming and sobs, and eventually wails, escaped my lips. I knew from the beginning; I knew from the moment they looked at each other, they wouldn't ever leave one another, for what ever reason, despite anything that they would ever go through. And I knew he loved her– he definitely cared for her– but somehow, though knowing, I managed to find myself in pain, getting myself acquainted with the pain of being used like that by him and yet longing for him. I was his, and I so desperately wanted him to be mine. But I knew then, as I lied in my-tears-soaked sheets, and I know now, that he won't ever be mine because he's already hers.