I see her heart in her eyes, the way they twinkle when she smiles, or turn dull when she's sad. I see her intelligence in the way she argues with me, the mystery in the way she tilts her head to side when she looks at me sometimes. I see her pain when we talk about her parents and her naughtiness when she thinks she has pulled one over on me. And her beauty, yes, her beauty. Her smile, her laugh, the melody of her voice; the strength of her convictions and her rigid rules of right and wrong; her tears and her anger, her ambivalence and, yes, her violence; I find them all so beautiful.
I also am painfully aware of what I don't see. I don't see the reflection of what I feel in her eyes. I don't see anything there but fondness for me, the warmth you would probably feel for a friend. Nor do I see in her actions anything that might give me hope that one day she might feel as I do.
So I hide my emotions and smile the way I would at a friend. I try not to touch her for fear that I might not let go. I do my best to be there for her even though I know, whatever it is that I feel for her will never be reciprocated.
I smile as I give her chocolates and whisper, "Happy valentines." She teases me about my choice of chocolates and I tease her back. The banter I am already used to, the tug of pain of a love irrevocably unrequited is something I will learn to endure.
I barely see her today. She's swamped and so am I. But she passes by as she leaves for home and bids me adieu. As I watch her head home I bid her farewell with a reminder to take care. And I feel a bit happy inside for I have spent part of the day with my valentine even though she will never know.