I’d been trying to tell you for a while at that point, that I wanted something concrete, set in stone, you know? That a few hazy days texts felt shallow at best and cursory at worst. Careless, almost. I tried to be understanding, I did, that your phone crashed a lot and your dyslexia made it hard for you to read and write, and so I didn’t push, because pushing only leads to pushing away, which was the last thing I wanted.
‘Course, when it comes to what I want, I never know ’til it’s too late. And sometimes my brain can’t make its damn mind up at all.
Part of me wanted it all, the grand gestures, the sensation of skin on skin, lips on lips, the words spoken between lovers, you know. And another part of me was too damn tired, too damn worn down by promises and maybes and tomorrows and never ever the promise of something exclusive, something unique.
Selfish, I know, but I never, ever, claimed I wasn’t.
Is it a Mexican stand-off if one party doesn’t know they’re involved? ‘Cos it sure feels like one nonetheless. You said you had nothing to say, so I’m letting you say it. What can I possibly respond with, if you don’t have words after a freaking holiday? I think you forget how damn isolated I am, how a holiday is as sparkly, shiny, rare as a trip to the moon for me. I’d listen to every word you had to say about it, look at every photo you took. But I guess, if you ain’t in the mood for sharing, I won’t be in the mood for listenin’.
I think I like love stories a lot more than I like love as a concept. Love stories have definitive endings, or they fade to black and you know, with that fuzzy feeling inside, that everything’s going to be okay. Real life ain’t like that. Real life is uncertainty and knowing that one day you’re going to wake up next to someone and wonder if you even know them any more. Real life is crueller by half and then some.
I understand completely why you wouldn’t want to tether yourself to one person – what if it went wrong, you know? And I understand completely why you wouldn’t wouldn’t want to tether yourself to me – the most boring human alive. There are trainspotters with more compelling stories to tell, let me assure you. Vibrant and excited, they’ll tell you about the time they saw such-and-such and how it changed their life. What can I tell you? Nothin’ like that.
I am, ultimately, a failed experiment. Psychology gone wrong. I think every child is an attempt to create something beautiful, but I got warped along the way and now I’m ugly and uncertain and so, so freaking selfish.
So – tell me if I got this right. I love you, but you don’t love me. And you never will. And finally, finally, I’m okay with that.
Love ain’t for the likes of me, the outskirts of humanity. It’s a nice pipe dream, and reading about it sure is fun, but it’s not a reality. And that’s okay, really.
Just – just don’t text for a while, okay? Or ever, preferably. Because I fall again so easy every time. And your words are like moves on a dance floor, smooth and silky and supple, and I try to keep up and follow the beat but I just can’t. Yet they’re utterly compelling . You do what I can’t do. You keep me reading, wanting more. And I think you know you’re doing it, because otherwise you would have stopped. Because there’s nothing more fun than seeing a cat bat at a feather on a string, or chase a laser dot. Cat ain’t never going to get a filling meal out of it, but it sure is cute how they try.
I’m the cat in this analogy, I should mention.
You know, being lonely sucks. Seeing the same damn faces ’til you start to hate them just for their familiarity sucks. And it’s all I can do to keep from screaming sometimes. But the answer? It’s not you, is it?
It’s not you.
Sorry, baby doll.