I remember wishing I would become the victim of some sort of freak accident, just so he would realize his true feelings for me. How he would think in that moment, clutching my hand as I lay unconscious on the hospital bed, that he couldn’t imagine what it would be like without me. That even though we were only best friends, he realized he wanted more than that. I could picture myself hooked up to an IV machine, beeping sounds penetrating the silence as I breathed slowly. The blinds were shut, leaving the room looking gray and stiff.
But he was there, sitting by my side, never leaving. My eyes would open slowly, and he would smile, telling me how glad he was I survived. Smiling weakly, for my jaw was in too much pain, I squeezed his hand, and he kissed my forehead softly.
That was all I wanted. Was for him to want me. I was willing to imagine myself in pain for it to work out. And not once did I ever think about the fact that in my daydream, it took something as serious as me getting hurt for a thought such as “more than friendly” feelings to even cross his mind. So stupid.
But it’s no longer a daydream. And I wasn’t wishing with all my heart for it to happen anymore. I was wishing it didn’t happen, because now that it had, it wasn’t what I wanted at all. All I wanted was for it—for him, to disappear. Disappear into thin air.
