You’re Too Young For Me
There’s something we need to talk about. There’s something we’ve been blissfully ignoring as we fell into this flirtation, this relationship, this excitement. There’s something neither of us wants to admit and so that makes it even more important to say. We’re living in the honeymoon right now. The reality is: you’re too young for me.
I love a lot about you. I love your energy and your enthusiasm. I love your ambition, the way you turn into this fascinating little creature when you’re motivated. You have so much future ahead of you. You can really accomplish all the things you want to do. You’ll change so much in the next five years. I have no doubt you’ll do all the wonderful things you want to do — and then some.
But I’m settled. I know what I’m going to do and where I’ll be. I hate to pull a “When I was your age” but when I was your age, months seemed like decades and now? Now, I’ll look back on something that feels recent and it will have happened four years ago. Time doesn’t necessarily mean change for me anymore — and for you, well I’ve seen mere days influence your entire world.
It’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it’s amazing. It’s beautiful. You’re in the middle of an incredible time in your life.
You don’t need to act like you’re above all that for me. And you certainly don’t need me.
Not that you aren’t mature. You are. You’ve almost got me convinced this could work out. I want to believe it could. I like everything about you. I want to throw around excuses and say you’re different. I want to say the chaotic forces of your life have made you older — wise beyond your years. And they have in many ways. But emotionally? In reality? You’re still your age. You can’t change that. You shouldn’t want to. You shouldn’t be trying to grow up so fast.
I’ve become cynical as years have gone by. I’m not as open to love as you are. I used to fall head over heels like you do. I used to race toward love and nicknames and commitment, but those things never worked out for me. You haven’t had any of that yet. Sometimes it scares me, the way your face is so expressive — it shows me everything you feel. You look at me like I’m special or lovely or magic. Like I know something you don’t maybe. Truth is: I don’t know anything.
Why do you even want me? You want someone who you can grow with, someone to share experiences, someone who is changing just as much as you are, someone exciting.
You’ll resent me. You’ll resent the nights in. You’ll resent the adult responsibilities. You’ll resent the exhaustion.
I’ve fallen in love before. I’ve had my heart trampled on. This hasn’t happened to you yet and I don’t want to be the one to do it. I want to keep you — smiling and wanting and ready for life — just as you are.
I know you’re going to become an amazing person. I’m sorry I can’t be there while it happens.
A | A | A
If you’ve been looking for a chance to say something then this very well could be it.
I wish to God I’d had a list like this when I was 23.
Answer phones better than anyone else has answered phones before. Relay messages so brilliant, they bring people to tears. Turn the coffee run into the choreography of Swan Lake. Become best friends with every intern and every underling and every taxi driver you encounter.
I remember taking the pen and notebook from that woman outside the courtroom, flipping to a clean page in the book, and writing, JESSICA IS SAD in big, bold, uncoordinated letters. “My sister is going to be a good writer someday! Look at how nice her lines are!”