He was too good for her, she was sure of it.
Propped up next to her on the couch, she could feel the heat of his body against her side and though his eyes were fixed pointedly on the television in front of them, she wanted to believe he was as aware of her as she was of him.
Of course, it was probably all in her mind. Her sleep addled and over-imaginative mind. Conjuring up this strange sense of awareness, coupled with the always abrupt realization of just how awesome this person next to her was.
And she was not worthy.
What an odd thought to have while doing something as casual and domestic as watching a television series together. But he’d driven all the way out to see her, just to watch a series. And he did so much more than that without even realizing it. When she was down he did his best to cheer her up, when she felt anxious or depressed he commiserated, and he didn’t seem to mind at all how awkward or quiet she was. On top of that, he was the most supportive person in the world when it came to her aspirations as a writer.
And what did she do for him in return? Not enough. She wanted to be better, wanted to deserve him. But then she’d relapse and lose everything she’d worked for. It was really pathetic how easily whatever meager amount of self-esteem she gained could be ripped away. She was appalled at how many “bad” days she still had, days when she could barely get out of bed and even crying required too much energy.
No one should have to deal with that.
But he was still sitting there, on her couch, casually reaching over to rest his arm on her shoulders. His body heat still seeped into her, warming her straight to the bone. She felt his glance, searing the way it landed on her. Inhaled the scent that was uniquely his, and knew he was too good for her.
That didn’t stop her from wanting to try.
Here we go again, based upon a real happenstance. Have you noticed my tendency to start out writing something kind of depressing and realistic, that desperately wants to pull for a "happy" ending?