This is my usual spot. I’m sitting on the third to the last step of the concrete staircase, which leads to my apartment, waiting for Elle to come home. Night after night, I watch for the telltale sign of headlights and loud voices before I scurry up to my apartment, acting as if nothing is amiss. It’s when I’m in my apartment; I become this peeping tom character who I loathe. It’s not me, but the situation I’m in. Being in love with a woman who won’t give me the time of day weighs heavily on my self-worth. I’m not being fair, though, and shouldn’t assume Elle knows how I feel about her. It’s not like I’ve come clean and put my feelings out there. I’ve kept them shriveled up at the bottom of my heart, mostly out of fear she’ll reject me. I have no one to blame for my heartache other than myself.

After hours of sitting here, I’m numb. There are aches in parts of my body I didn’t know existed, yet I stay. Every person who uses the steps to reach the second and third floors stops and asks me if I’m okay. I am, truthfully, even if I want things to change. Elle worries me. Thoughts of her keep me up at night. I lose focus when I think about her, which is all the time, and yet this is the only way I can cope. I know I can go out with her, but being her standby, the guy who holds her coat at night and her hair when she’s puking in the bushes isn’t my idea of a good time. However, neither is this. Waiting here it’s only increasing the anxiety I feel brewing inside. I don’t want to see who she’s coming home with, yet I know I’ll look and let the pain of knowing some man is touching the woman I’m in love with flood through me.

At some point, you give up. Not emotionally, but physically, and you take your tired and sore legs up the stairs, one step at a time. And when you’re inside your apartment, alone and in the dark, you start to ask yourself why. Why are you waiting for someone who doesn’t wait for you? Why do you care? Why do you bother?

The answer is simple. I’m in love with her, and I have been since high school. For me, it was love at first sight. The love is unrequited, and for some reason, I’m okay with this because Elle is in my life, and having her there as a friend is better than the alternative.

I shut off all my lights and peek outside one more time before retreating to my room. I don’t bother to change my clothes, and flop down on my bed. Deep down, I know I have to stop worrying about Elle, stop watching her self-destruct and trust her family will intervene. I’m Elle’s best friend. I’ll be her rock, her confidante and the person she unleashes her fury on after her brother tells her she needs help.

When he came to me with the plan, I surprised myself by agreeing with him. Usually, I have Elle’s back, but in this case, he’s right. She needs help. I don’t know whether it’s rehab or therapy, but she hasn’t been right since Peyton’s accident. I’ve tried to talk to her, but she changes the subject almost instantly, or she brushes it off with some good ole fun.

I startle at the sound of my phone ringing. It’s her ringtone, a song designated just for her and one she chose for herself. I do not attempt to answer it, and instead, I stare at the dark ceiling, wondering what she has to tell me at three in the morning. My hand scrubs harshly over my face as the ringing starts again. I shouldn’t answer it, but I know I’m going to. I always do even though lately I’ve felt like I’ve been nothing more than a stepping stone for her, a place for her to dump her problems. The door of friendship stops there. When it’s my turn, she’s busy, indisposed or doing who knows what and with whom. Peyton tells me this is a phase; her sister will snap out of it when Elle realizes she has feelings for me.

Peyton says I should ask Elle directly if she has feelings for me, but I’m afraid. I’m fearful of what she might tell me. To hear the words she’s in love with someone who isn’t me will be earth-shattering, and yet I’ve done nothing to prepare myself for it. My brother says I’m weak, and he’s right, but love does that to a man.

However, she could tell me she’s in love with me and expects to live a life of wedded bliss. I can’t win with my heart and brain. It’s an endless battle, and I have no one to blame but myself. Over the years, I’ve had ample opportunity to tell her how I feel, but the words have never come easy for me. Sure, I can say them in the mirror, behind her back when she’s walking away, or after she’s hung up, but to utter the words that will inevitably change our relationship to her face? I know it’s something I will fail at.

The ringing stops, giving me a reprieve from the sound of the chime. I’m my own worst enemy when it comes to Elle, and yet I do nothing to change the situation. I suppose, in a way, I only have myself to blame for letting her get the best of me for so many years. I finally roll over and close my eyes, only to have her beautiful face appear and for her ringtone to fill my room once more.

“Let it go,” I say into the darkness. “Let it go. Let it go. Let her go.” The word her causes me to spring from my bed. I rub my hands over my face, pushing away the immediate sense of dread I feel before reaching for my phone. It starts ringing again and the picture of us that I took last week fills my screen. It’s as if she knew I was about to call her. Only I don’t accept her call right away. My mind is foggy and unsure. Why would I tell myself to let her go when I’m in love with her? I don’t believe saying “let her go” was a slip of the tongue.

I finally roll over when the ringing continues. Elle’s the only one who has no qualms about calling me in the middle of the night or this case, the wee hours of the morning. Given my earlier conversation with Quinn, I know why she’s calling. I’m hesitant to pick up the phone, afraid of what she might say to me on the other end. With Elle, I can never be too sure.

Still, I press the button to open our line of communication because I’d hate myself if I didn’t. “Are you hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Pride doesn’t count, Elle.”

“You’re supposed to have my back, Ben.”

I brush my hand over my face and sigh. “I do, and I always will, but I happen to agree with your family. You’ve changed.”

“Death does that to someone.”

“No one died. Peyton is alive and well, and likely sitting in some class right now oblivious to your meltdown.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s nearly four in the morning. I’m allowed to be a bit discourteous.”

“Do you want me to let you go?”

Yes. “Never, Elle. You know I’ll always be here for you.”

“Why is life so hard, Ben?”

With no choice, I sit up and groan. My back presses into the hardwood of my headboard at an awkward angle. I quickly adjust, adding a pillow behind my back and get comfortable. “Life is what we make it, Elle. Right now, you’re struggling emotionally, and the coping mechanisms you’ve chosen aren’t healthy.”

“You sound like Quinn. I want you to sound like Ben, my best friend.”

I sigh. “I am your best friend, but I’m worried about you.”

“Do you worry when you’re with me?”

“I do, Elle. Every moment.”

She sniffles and I want nothing more than to comfort her, but Quinn’s right. We have to stand our ground and let her know she can’t continue the way she is.

---

I never thought I’d live in California, but here I am, following the girl of my dreams. I suppose it’s not all bad considering my brother moved here shortly after I started at UCLA and had given me a place to escape my reality.

For the ten, eleventh or maybe it’s the twelfth time I’ve yawned during class, garnering the attention of my professor. Admittedly, I’m not the only one who can’t seem to stay awake during his lecture, but it seems I’m the one he’s chosen to send death glares too. Had I known he would be here today instead of his assistant, I would’ve taken a sleeping aid or gone to bed early enough to be alert. The likelihood I would’ve done this is slim. I had to agonize over Elle all night, and I could’ve easily ignored her call, but the truth is, I never will.

She’s my weakness.

My demise.

My professor moves to his podium signaling the end of his lecture and class. I start to gather my things as another yawn strikes. This time it’s long and drawn out and as much as I try to hide it, my professor’s eyes land on mine. Great.

“Mr. Miller, if you could please meet me in my office.” He looks directly at me, so there’s no mistaking it’s me he wants to see, even though I look at the other students. Most are packing up their belongings, and only a few are looking at me. Their expressions tell me everything I need to know. I’m busted. For what, I don’t know, but it seems I’ve done something to upset my teacher.

Like a child being scolded, I walk as slowly as possible down the hall of the building until I reach Professor Jacobs’ door. I knock twice and wait for him to tell me to enter. His voice is loud as he beckons me in. My palms are sweaty, making it a bit tricky to turn the doorknob. It takes me a few tries before it finally opens.

I clear my throat when I enter. It’s ridiculous because he already knows I’m here, but at least I’m not yawning. Being here makes me wonder if he wants to know whether his lecture was boring or if I’m not prepared for his class. Unfortunately, neither question has a positive answer.

“Mr. Miller, do you know why I called you here?” Clearly not, since I'm freaking out on the inside. If I did, I imagine I’d walk in with more confidence instead of preparing myself for a butt chewing.

“No, sir.” Other than the fact I almost fell asleep in your class and had to fight to stay awake.

Jacobs slides a sheet of paper to the end of his desk and motions for me to take it. I do, waiting for the words to register in my mind. It’s a letter addressed to me, from my dream agency in New York City. The agency I’ve always pictured working at, the one Elle used to tease me about because I would carry-on about their corporate information, studying and memorizing every bit.

“Dear Mr. Miller…” My words trail off as soon as my eyes land on the word internship.

“Do you want it? It’s a great opportunity,” Jacobs asks. Inside, I’m screaming yes, but my head is shaking no. “Why not, Mr. Miller?”

My hand falls, but I refuse to let go of the paper. Why don’t I want this opportunity to intern at the most prestigious advertising firm in New York? Elle. She’s the reason. Yet, I can’t find the words to tell my professor I’m going to turn this down because of a girl.

“Take some time to think about it.”

“Thank you; I will.” I turn and head toward his office door, stumbling my way through a mental fog. I’d be stupid to leave, but a complete fool to stay.