He would stare at her all day, and she would glance past him each day. It was as if he were there. She stood in the balcony sometimes, reading her fancy poetry. Her golden locks would slide off her finger as she tried again and again to twirl them around it. She’d read intently, her eyes mirroring all the feelings she read about. He would just sit there, sluggish and drooling, as her eyes widened, smiled, cringed, and teared. He would just sit there longing for her to look at him. He would imagine her tender hand on his coarse cheek, he would picture himself in her arms, and he would fancy on as she finished her reading hour and went back inside. He could only imagine what it would be like, inside her house, in her presence. What it would be like to sit at her bedside as she slumbered. He loved every minute of her company.
He sighed. If only she knew he existed. Alas, he was just a toad.