The Boy Made of Reverie

It's exhausting having feelings for the same guy I’ve liked since I was nine. Like, what the hell? Why does he still show up in my dreams? Why do I still have our photos buried in my phone? Why can't I just shake him loose, like dust from an old book?

I tell myself I'm over him. That I don't like him. Or, at least I try to. We've been orbiting each other our whole lives, mostly at church or those endless church get-togethers.

I kept my crush a secret, especially from my best friend, who liked him too. It always annoyed me because I liked him first. But I let it go because friendship wasn’t something I took for granted back then. Even if it meant pretending I didn’t care.

Maybe I liked him because, back then, everyone else just faded into the background. Not in a mean way—just that no one else ever made me stop and look. But he… he had these big, warm brown eyes, which annoyed me, because we had the same color eyes, but his looked like polished chestnuts that caught the light like tiny suns. He had this way of existing that demanded attention without ever asking for it. A quiet sort of gravity. That always seemed to pull me in. His laughter was something I sought to hear; it was unguarded, boyish, a sound that made everything feel lighter.

And when he smiled, it wasn’t just the way his smile was slightly crooked, the way the left corner of his mouth always lifted a bit higher than the right side. it was the tilt of his head, the way his shoulders relaxed, like for that one second, he had nothing to worry about.

"I don't like him though," I'd tell myself, even as my heart did a little flip.

He never met anyone’s gaze directly, and was always a little awkward; yet, somehow, it only made him more endearing. "But I don't like him," I thought, even when I found myself smiling at his awkwardness.

We don’t see each other much anymore, not since we both moved and stopped going to the same church. But sometimes, I still catch glimpses of him—at an assembly, a convention, in photos on someone's social media.

The last time I saw him was at my friend’s graduation party. I noticed him the moment I stepped through the doors. He was taller than I remembered, less fidgety, and a little less awkward. And for the first time, he looked people in the eyes. "I don't like him," I reminded myself, even as my eyes were glued to him.

We didn’t talk; we just stole glances at each other every now and then, enough for butterflies with yellow-carnation wings to flutter up my throat and tangle in my stomach. The party carried on around us. Laughter spilled into the air as we gave gifts, played games, and captured memories in our phones.

But the more the night stretched on, the more the air seemed to thicken. Voices blurred together, the room buzzing with a static only I could hear. My chest tightened, my hands fidgeting at my sides. I needed a break.

I never liked crowds, never liked the weight of too many voices pressing in. So, I escaped to the drinks table, hoping it would calm my nerves. They had pitchers of bright red Kool-Aid and cool lemonade. I filled a flimsy plastic champagne flute with the bright red drink, watching it swirl under the light.  As I turned, I felt it again—his gaze.

And there he was, a few feet away, looking right at me.

I smiled, eyes widening slightly. We hadn’t spoken all night; I hadn’t expected us to either.

He smiled back, warm and familiar. "Hey, how have you been?"

For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to look up at him; instead I kept my gaze fixed on the drink in my hands. "Good. A little tired, but good."

I wanted to tell him I missed him, that I liked the way he carried himself now—looser, more sure of his own presence. That his smile had become easier, even though his eyes still carried the weight of something that resembled teardrops swirling in his irises. I wanted to tell him he looked good, and that I was annoyed that I couldn't tease him about his height anymore since he had grown taller than me.

But I didn’t.

We spoke for a few minutes, just small talk. Silence settled between us, heavier than before as we ran out of things to chat about. I made up a lousy excuse and said my friend needed me; I apologized, saying I had to go. He gave me a small laugh, "That's alright, you have fun."

But before I left, I finally found the courage to look up at him.

And there it was, a smile.

Not a hesitant smirk. Not just a tug at the corner of his mouth. A real, full, teeth-showing grin stretched across his face like the first bloom of spring.

In that split second, a thousand thoughts raced through my mind. I wanted to reach for his sleeve, just to feel something solid, to make sure this moment was real. I wanted to tell him he looked so happy, that his eyes held a light I had never seen before, like he had finally found a rhythm to life that suited him. And selfishly, I wanted to hold onto that, for a second longer—to know that whatever piece of him I used to have, someone else hadn’t taken it away.

But I couldn't.

I just nodded and walked away.

I hate myself every day for not saying what was on my mind, because that was the first time in my life I had ever seen him smile like that.

"But I don’t like him," I tell myself. Another lie I copy and paste over every thought of him, over every stolen glance, over every almost-confession. Because the truth is terrifying. Because what if he doesn’t like me? What if he never did? What if I’ve spent my whole life chasing a boy made of reverie—only to wake up alone?