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There was a certain standard anyone would have to have if they lived with George. He was a bit awkward which couldn’t be helped and too quiet at the most inappropriate times. Any defect to his personality, whether that be his pickiness with chocolate milk brands or his incessant need to hog all the blankets on movie nights, were all but naught to your ever prevailing love for him.
You were best friends with him, roommates even, and nothing could ever compare to how strangely in love you were with him. It wasn’t the kind of love that hit you so suddenly, but it was the kind of love that made you go, “ oh. ”. Of course, the man was blind to it all. Just as blind as he was now while he busied himself in the kitchen. He had your hoodie on—or was it his? You honestly couldn’t remember who it originally belonged to—while he prepared the stove top for the pancakes he decided to make that Saturday.
Even now, as he prepared the pancake mix for breakfast, you couldn’t help but pine from afar. You had a playlist playing in the background, as you were the DJ this particular morning. The soft tempo of this morning’s playlist filled the flat and made it impossibly harder for you not to fall into some kind of trance and create dumb, romantic scenarios in your head. You were a bit love sick, which was to be expected from the countless times you’ve played this exact scene in your head.
If you were as brave as you were in your scenarios, you confess your love to him a thousand different ways. Perhaps you would grab his attention and whisper your love to him, wanting only him to hear it. Or maybe you would tell him while you two laughed from some dumb joke that brought tears to both of your eyes. Or would you tell him with a soft sigh filled with exasperation and fondness after he accidentally burns a pancake. Or would you tell him with a nervous smile, your confession coming out more like a question; a question you hoped he’d answer with the same words but more confident and reassuring.
Throughout all this, there was always the possibility of rejection. It scared you, the possible rejection you could face. You weren’t the best at understanding your feelings, unlike George who almost always knew how you were feeling, so the fear of losing George made you almost always back off. He was off-limits, something not meant to be touched or held with soft, caring hands; only meant to be looked at.
You didn’t know what true love was. Was it supposed to suffocate you and burn you, with only their affection and touch as your cure? Was it supposed to be the kind of love where you burned like a fire until you were left as ashes? Was it supposed to be soft and gentle like the wind on a particularly nice day? You really had no clue, but all you wanted was to be here with George for forever.
“Are you okay?” You jumped, his voice breaking through your thoughts. You blinked a couple of times, trying to regain a sense of what was going on.
“Huh?”
You looked at George, who had one eyebrow raised and the end of his lips curling up into that devious smirk he would make when he’d tease you. It always made you want to hide your face behind your hands and throw curses at you until he laughed at you for being so easily flustered.
“I asked if you were okay,” George said, turning back to the stove for a moment to flip the pancake. “You looked like you had a lot on your mind.”
“Yeah,” You said, clearing your throat and shifting your eyes away from him, fearing he'd look right through you and see just how in love you were with him. “Just thinking about something.”
“Oh? What are you thinking about?” George asked, putting the spatula down and turning around to face you, his lips finally curling up into a smile. You froze for a moment, not knowing what to say now. You wanted to blame his damn beautiful smile for taking the words right out of your mouth.
“You.” You blurted out, feeling shocked at your own response and sudden need to dive into the end. George’s smile faltered for just a moment and you could feel the world crumbling beneath you. It was a stupid thing to do, but there were a lot of other stupid things you could’ve said.
George stayed quiet for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed from confusion or concentration, you couldn’t tell. It was only until a moment passed and George suddenly turned back to the stove and stood there. You felt the elation of what you thought you’d feel for finally saying something disappear and the anxiety of what’s come appears.
“George, I--” You started to say, when you were cut off by George himself.
“You should tell me all about it after we eat,” He said, suddenly turning back to you, planting a tower of pancakes on the table between you and him. “I'd love to hear what you have to say.”
You stared at him, a bit shocked and flustered. He sat down across from you, grabbing two fresh pancakes for you and him. His smile returned again, and of course, you didn’t miss the pink clouding his cheeks. He began eating without saying anything else and the anxiety was gone. everything was just as it was.
Yeah, you definitely would tell him what you had to say.