It felt like 20 years ago today when I first laid eyes on him. He was so perfect. His stance was meek, his hair an ivory black, his eyes the color of honey, and perfect lips. He blew my "type" out of the water. I could only look from afar because I'm just a random girl to him, and he a random boy. He just waltzed into my life when I've been listening to music in 4/4. He caught me so off guard and I instantly fell for him. In a place where I was supposed to be learning, I could only find myself staring at his prefect hair. Each time he walked past me, I would fantasize about how sensitive he could be.
One day I mustered up enough courage so give a shy, "Hi," and in response he gave an almost inaudible, "Hello," back. He was just like I had envisioned. His voice became my favourite song. I never wanted to stop listening, but alas, he was a man of few words. I wanted to spend all my waking hours with him. I wanted to be his source of happiness. I wanted to be his.
Each day I were to see him, I poured hours into my appearance. I had to do my hair in a delicate ponytail, wear a dress that would synch my waist, paint my nails, and even wear make-up. I never did these things for myself, but if they were for him, everything was worth it. But when the formal setting simmers out and I leave, tears silently leave my eyes. He didn't come. I just hope and pray each time our meeting comes around that he'll come. Each time he doesn't arrive I leave in a pit of despair. But when my efforts pay off I am on cloud nine.
I would notice little by little that each time I tried to spark conversation he became quiet, stiff, and avoidant. I thought I loved that about him. He reminded me of my own brother. I found from cumulating hours of looking at him afar, he wasn't like that at all. He was full of life, talkative, and immature. I could deal with that. He'd just need to warm up to me. He could joke with me. But maybe it's his true self. His jokester self was just a persona. I kept telling myself this until I believed it.
I became increasingly more desperate and clingy. I had to be with him at every opportunity. I daydreamed about him from the moment I woke up to the last thing I think at night. I drew him, trying to catch his likeness so I could look at him with him present. He's perfect and made my heart jump out of my chest. I wanted to give him that energized heart and for him to accept it. I need him and his validation. I need him.
But I wasn't making him happy.
If I truly loved him like I thought, I would prioritize his happiness over my own. It's not healthy that I'm worshipping him like a God.
So I kept my distance.
From afar I gladly looked at him be happy with the people he enjoyed. His eyes weren't the same honey color, they're just brown. His lips are just the ones that I'm so insecure about. His hair is just that; hair. He smiles with his imperfect smile and I'm just glad he's happy. I accept his joy doesn't have to involve me. I want him to enjoy his own moments, and not revert back to that shell he was always in around me.
I look at him one last time with the small glimmer of hope that he might look back. But I know he won't. Perhaps some other time we could have something together. It doesn't have to be like that. Maybe we could start by just being friends. I wave goodbye with a somber smile and go on with my own life.