It's never close enough for her.

It's never close enough for her. That leg of his. It rests right next to hers--half an inch and they would be touching through jean-thick fabric. Touching warm and tingly and she's sad because she knows she's the only one who can feel it. It's just not there for him and she understands that but she hates it nonetheless--hates the way she can feel her self-confidence drop with every thudding heartbeat. She's not pretty enough for him, surely. She doesn't use her hips enough when she walks and her lips never pout in the right way. His eyes make her too nervous because they always hold the illusion of hope and she can never tell what is real. If he is real.

Maybe her whole life is in her head and nothing is real.

Doesn't matter though, because she would live this dream with him for a lifetime:

Because a dream with him is better than a reality without him.