My ankle hurt.

The damn thing throbbed as I curled up on the doorway, staring at the front door across from me. I knew the people on the other side of the doorway I sat in wouldn’t care—my friends. And it was safer than sitting in his doorway, or, worse, going over to his door and knocking.

She was inside. He’d made that abundantly clear when I’d called and he had given his short, non-commital answers.

It didn’t matter, though. I still curled up on the doorway in the cold, wrapped up in the large jacket I’d bought myself that year for winter, and the leather, faux-fur lined gloves kept my hands warm. I’d wait forever on that front door for him.

He’d been so tender when I’d fallen; wrapped his arms around me and all-but carried me to to my apartment down the street. It had hurt to walk, but he had been there the whole way, supporting me, helping me through it, and I loved him. Loved him more then than I had before I had sprained my ankle, which I hadn’t thought possible.

He’d made sure everything I wanted was close-by, the television remote, my phone, my laptop, and even brought me a mini-cooler with some soda and snacks so that I didn’t have to get up except to the use the restroom. I didn’t ask for it, he was just that kind of a thoughtful guy—no matter how much he tried to deny it.

And then he’d left. I’d wanted him to stay. He had made some excuse about leaving, but I knew he was going home. Going home, to be with her. Going home, to be with her, and the warmth of his side and his soft, gentle body pressed against mine would no longer be mine to possess. It would be hers, once again. It was always hers. It was only mine for a fleeting, distant second, and then he was gone, a constant reminder that he was not mine. He was hers.

I hoped I’d sprain my ankle when he was around again.

It had been that thought that had drawn me to his apartment, hobbling ankle and all. I walked all the way to his apartment, holding rails and walls as I went, and waited across from his doorstep, at the neighboors we both knew. Waited for him to come out. Waited to see him.

The door opened. My heart ached with anticipation, with excitement. It pounded with sharp, deep thuds. I felt the air leave my lungs as I watched, waiting.

They ran out.

Like watching a love scene in slow motion, they ran out of his apartment, the both of them laughing, her head throw back in large, wide laughter. He was grinning over at her with sparkling eyes and a loving, pleased expression. Pleased that he had made that adorable girl so happy. I watched, stricken, as he turned to lock the door, and as he turned back to her, still with his so-wide smile—a smile I had never been privvy to—he suddenly caught sight of me sitting on his neighboor’s stoop, staring at him.

His smile died a little, then, and his eyes lost their sparkle.

It was too much to bear. I watched as she, who had not noticed me, helped him lock up their apartment and took his hand, pulling him away with her, still running, running, running. Where were they running to? Where did they need to go so fast in such good spirits?

He only looked back once, right as they were rounding the corner. And then he waved his free hand, just a little, and was gone.

And I had been dismissed.