She's his best friend.

And she's annoying and stubborn and infuriating ... and he's totally in love with her in that blinding, white hot sort of way that's all encompassing and makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

He wonders how she doesn't know - thinks there are times he's sure she does - and he realizes he's doomed because some day he'll draw a line in the sand or curl up into a ball die and neither is bound to work in his favor.

She's taken over his life - owns him - and he hates himself for it.

But he can't help it.

Lately she's been giddy. With what he isn't sure, but she's skipping behind him and jinxing him and grasping his wrist with tiny, perfect fingers while they choose bands for her wedding. Wedding. He keeps that word tucked away somewhere with all the random Spanish words he remembers from high school, but usually has to look up in a phrasebook. He ignores the glint of gold on her left hand because otherwise it feels sort of like he thinks a supernova must when it collapses into a black hole.

And he thinks it's mean, all the ways she murders him.

But he's a glutton for punishment, and he knows he's rather die in the palm of her hand than hold on to someone ... less.

She smiles at him across poker chips and he takes his latest last deep breath.