I was supposed to go to sleep. I was tired. Exhausted, really. But the second my head hit the pillow, I thought of you. Just like a flash that a superhero sees when he makes contact with another person for the first time and watches their life story at supersonic speed, or the part of the murder mystery where the detective plays all of the clues at once, I saw you. And now, I’m not sure when I’ll sleep.
My head is racing. I feel sick. I replay everything you’ve said over and over a million times again. Did I do something wrong? Was I too fat? Too old? Did I move too fast? Do you even miss me? I know you said you do, but what did you mean? There’s no way that word means the same to you that it does to me. When I say, “I miss you.” it means that I wish you were next to me. I wish we could live out some of our dates, night after night. I wish we could sit on the couch for hours and talk about the stupidest nothings ever spoken of. Cuddle in our own language for months, and never let anyone get into our inside jokes. It means that when I touch you, it’s the best feeling I’ve felt in years, and I’m not performing at my best until I get to feel your lips touch mine. When you say, “I miss you.” it probably doesn’t mean the same thing. Those careless words to you probably mean, something more like, “huh… Where’d he go…he was sure fun to hang out with. Oh well….” as you plop into your celebrity gossip on the internet, or get back to reading whatever homework assignment, “new cliche” fiction novel, or finish watching whatever YouTube video your friend posted.
It’s not your fault I feel this way. No, this is years of rejection being flung in my face. In fact, you’re just the latest to “not feel the same”. It’s a pattern that started when I was very young and replays over and over again in my mind. The voice say to me, “You need to be better.” “Nobody likes you.” “Everyone thinks you’re weird.”
No, you’re not at fault. You’re just the beautiful face, or personality that I believe is the secret to fighting my demons. Your touch, laugh, smile, or voice is the Excalibur in the battles of my insecurities. You are the drug that my brain and body crave, and that I’ve tricked myself into believing that it’s my heart just innocently loving you.
The same creative brain waves that allows me to tell you how beautiful you are, that cracks all those witty jokes when your iPhone messes up, that memorized your thought process the first time we spoke and finishes your sentences, turns into a wild beast and attacks me when I’m all alone. Your friend innocently invited me to an event that you are going to- you must be trying to see me and using her to make it happen. You texted me an interesting fact because it reminded you of me- you must have realized you loved me. NO! Nothing has changed. My brain is just trying to write a story to fit the romantic comedy that it cast us in. Some days, I’m the hero, and you’re the one who is upset about a misunderstanding that we had. Other days, I’m the bad guy, who is hurting you because I won’t be who or what you want me to be. Other days, we’re just both at the wrong places in our lives to be right together. No matter what the situation, The Fray is playing some moody ballad in the background and I don’t feel whole. The sun is cold and the moon is colder, and I’m just floating in an romantic purgatory, searching for something to distract me.
I guess I just want to be in love. Deep, disgusting, throw away all of your friends, love. The love that starts wars and ruins families. The love that makes a man, a man, and causes a woman to annoy the living daylights out of anyone stupid enough to flirt with her, or ask if she’s seeing anyone. The kind of love that causes tears to roll down one’s cheek after being proposed to. The kind of love that slows down time when you are dancing at the prom. I guess that’s it. And I want it with you. I want to miss you. I want you to miss me more. I want to be your secret weapon against the boogie monsters in the corner of your mind, and I want you to be mine. I want to be your Harry. I want you to be my Sally. I want this stupid song to end, so the happy pop song can play and the cast can dance while the credits roll and some secret last bit happens when all the other idiots are leaving the theatre. I want to be the only two people left in the bar, and I don’t want it to end.
The candle is dying. I’m finally starting to relax and feel sleepy again. I’ll go to sleep. Wake up. Laugh at how ridiculous I was tonight. Make breakfast. Try to be busy and too cool to text you. Pretend like I don’t notice when you like my status or read this or make your move in our 99 cent drawing game that I hate, but only play cause you do. Ask myself why “love” is a game of “who doesn’t need who more” and decide to do something sweet. Then later I’ll try to fall asleep again, and feel all of these emotions a little less… or more… depending on all of the unplanned circumstances that the sunlight brings. Well. That doesn’t even make any sense. I guess none of this really does. I guess… I just miss you and I wanted you to know that. Goodnight.