I have felt every damn thing you are feeling right now. And it isn’t fun. It’s heartbreaking, confusing, desperate. Even the most innocent text becomes a sign of hope.
It becomes so real that you can almost see it all unfold in front of you. The tears, his arms drawing you in, his searching eyes looking into yours asking you, begging you for a chance.
I wish I could tell you what you’re hoping to hear. I want to rush in the door with a letter from your hopeful suitor. I would be your Chris Harrison.
And in our society, being the person who cares less means you win.
You actually go over lists in your head of all the reasons why it’s not a good idea to like them, and how you could never like them in practice because they’re totally wrong for you.
Your validation — or, rather, its absence — used to mean so much to me. I used to rise and fall at the beeping sound from a new text message.
It will be like loving a brick wall. You are head over heels enamored with everything they are, and all they can see is this ugly collection of flaws and how undeserving they are of your love.
It’s three in the morning and I should have left hours ago. We are standing outside and it is noticeably cold. It is the end of September, the first night when summer officially becomes fall, and I am dressed like it’s still July.
And “I miss you” — is that only appropriate to someone who has left, someone you imagine will come back or at least longs to do so? What about the people who have never fully entered our lives, who have passed by it like a shiny car driving just slowly enough to get a glimpse at the people inside?