In upper secondary literature, we studied the novel The Chrysalids. The uncle asked his nephew “What do you think it is that makes a man?” The nephew defined it in a man’s physical attributes but the uncle cut him off. He said, “No, what makes man man is mind…” I lust not after physical beauty (it helps that I am not a beautiful woman myself), but I greatly value one’s mind. And it pains me to admit that I can’t figure yours out. Having no clue what’s in your head keeps me on my toes and I spend every waking minute second-guessing your thoughts. You drive me wild, anxious and occasionally crazy. Is it possible to love someone I cannot claim to know?
Yet there is this strange feeling I cannot describe. The desire to keep you near and the irrational urge for exclusivity to our friendship. Last night I had a pretty awful nightmare, waking up trembling cold and scared. I reached for my phone in the darkness; I wanted to call you. Of all my friends, your comfort was the one I seek the most. That was when I knew I was in deep trouble. It took me a great deal of determination to put my phone away and even more courage to confront the fact that yes, I do want you.
I think I have been fair to you. We’ve been texting a lot recently. You text me when you are bored and want somebody or anybody to entertain you. I do my best. I have done a decent job, haven’t I? It does hurt my pride to wait by the phone for the rare instances that I should cross your mind; you do not know how very much I despise myself for taking delight in such fleeting moments.
In my pathetic defense is a quote I like from Jane Austen’s novel Northanger Abbey, “Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of any body else.”
Despite it all, at the end of day, when I suppress my wishful thinking, I know one thing: You do not love me. These shameful feelings of mine, I willfully wish it a premature death, let it not be spoken of anymore, and it shall never see the light.