I want some sparks, dammit. I want to meet someone and have them be as undeniably crazy about me as I am about them. I don’t want to worry about their feelings for me or feel like I’m being annoying when I invite them out for a drink. I want to know. I want them to look me in the eyes and tell me they care for me and never have to worry that an hour wait between text message responses means anything more than they didn’t have their phone on them at the time.
I want to be swept off my feet. I want to be fucking wooed. I want someone to fight for me when I have doubts and remember that my favorite ice cream flavor is peppermint. I want Sundays curled up under blankets listening to the rain and arguing over whether to watch Breaking Bad or Luther. I want to have small arguments and slightly bigger arguments and be able to solve them all with a long, lingering kiss or a handwritten letter tucked in my bag to be discovered later in the work day. I want someone to remember all the details — to tease me about how I can’t caramelize onions because I’m impatient, how I couldn’t tie my shoes until the first grade, how I still call that one Who song “Teenage Wasteland.”
You’re so many things I’ve always wanted. You’re kind and thoughtful and gentle and smart but I feel so much like an afterthought. That being with me made sense so you did it. I don’t want to wonder at whether or not I can grab your hand or run my fingers through your hair. I’m tired of being the instigator. I’m tired of feeling so fucking desperate when you’re supposed to be mine and I am completely yours. What gives? Let me go if you don’t really care. Free me and stop half-assing this relationship because I’d rather be lonely and searching than be bound to someone by their own indifference. I was born for a great love. I can feel it. I know it. You most certainly were, too. Stop wasting both our time and rip this shit off like a bandaid if you aren’t truly, genuinely, completely into me.
It felt so good for a moment. To know I wasn’t “on the market” anymore. I loved shutting down the booty calls. I loved telling my ex that I was in a relationship in response to a lewd late-night text message. And I liked you. I liked you so much. I feel like we’re cut from the same cloth, like we could have grown up together. You with your kindness and infinite reserves of friendship, your lack of judgment, your common sense. I was smitten. I would still be if it weren’t for my defenses going on red alert at the first sign of your disinterest. I’m trying not to think about how easy it is to be with you and that insane kiss in a crowded bar. I’m trying not to think about how you nice your arms feel, how right I thought they were. I’m trying so hard not to picture your smile or hear your laugh. I wanted to be done feeling like a silly little girl with a crush but now it seems I’m doomed to pluck petals off of daisies and strike through your name in never-ending rounds of MASH.
For a while there, I thought I’d grown out of this state of mind. It was nice for a minute to just bask in my own indifference. To shrug at rejection and spend Friday nights alone doing whatever the hell I wanted. But then you came along and made me think “well, this is awfully nice” and once again I was craving the companionship of another human being. I’m so worried that I’m right that you don’t care, that I am going to have to end this, that I am going to have to get used to my own solitude again. But I’d rather be alone and heartbroken than with someone who doesn’t see a future with me. I’d rather cry myself to sleep than wake up next to a man who doesn’t think he’s lucky to have drifted into dreamland with me in his arms. I think I deserve more than contented tolerance. I think you do, too.
I want someone who will hold me when I’m sad, will squeeze all the angst out of me in a tender embrace. I want someone who I can share my dark parts with, someone who won’t turn and run when I show the slightest sign of emotion. My darling, I thought that was you. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe I got too excited too soon. It’s something I have a tendency to do and it’s shot the foot of even my most passionate relationships. I don’t think I understand this world and the social mechanisms of love because the dating practice of keeping one’s cards hidden has never made any sense to me. I want to put it all out there. This is me and this is why I’m fucked up and also, darling, I am so, so into you. And I want that honesty to beget more honesty. I want to be met with enthusiastic agreement or direct rejection. No timid reaches for my hand if you care. None of that fading away over the course of a few weeks if you don’t. Be honest about your feelings because I have been honest about mine.
Life is too short to be tepid. And it is too long to spend it with people you don’t completely adore. God knows I want to keep you in my life, that I want to continue this courtship. Because you really are a beautiful human being. Because I don’t think there’s a mean bone in your body and I find nothing sexier than true, genuine kindness. But if you really aren’t that into me, if you’ve continued to pursue this because you don’t want to break my heart, then I would consider it the truest kindness if you were just honest and ended it. Because I want sparks, dammit, and it takes two to really make them happen.