Believe me when I say that I never intended for any of this to happen.
What I mean to say is,
back when we first started seeing each other,
and you waited 30 minutes before responding to my texts and
I got nervous speaking to you ,
I couldn’t picture any of this happening.
Perhaps I could have imagined us kissing in some restaurant, or maybe even holding hands in line at the movie theatre, but the rest of it? Well, that I could not have imagined.
I guess at this point it’s embarrassing, right? Not embarrassing like when I think I start work at 6 but I actually start at 5 and I run in an hour late and everyone stares at me.
It doesn’t make me red in the face or anything like that.
It’s just humiliating.
I know the way I sound when I talk about you: silly, young, a character from a Sarah Dessen novel, but mostly like someone I would make fun of. That’s the thing that embarrasses me the most — that this thing has turned me into someone else.
It’s that other person
that needy, grabby salesman of a person
that you don’t like, right? Is that the thing you can't stand about me?
That neediness?
That itchiness?
The way I look at you, the way I change my plans for you?
How did I become one of those girls who work at a department store and follow you from rack to rack.
“Do you need anything?”
“Can I help you with anything?”
“Is there anything in particular today that you’re looking for?”
If I cared less, would you care more? At first I was going to ask
“would you care at all,”
but that’s not right, is it? You care about me, you do.
You value me.
Probably. I mean, if someone asked you if you value me, you would say yes.
You just don’t actively value me. It seems like that wouldn’t make a difference, but it makes a huge difference.
I’ve manicured my hands and
dyed my hair and
perfumed my skin for you and, the whole while, I’ve told myself that it would make you want me.
I’ve made sure I was the funniest in the room, the wittiest in the conversation, convincing myself that it would make you change your mind.
It should be noted that these are precisely the kind of facts that humiliate me.
It didn’t work.
None of it worked.
Isn’t that funny?
I mean, not ha-ha-funny, but you have to admit
there is something laugh-worthy about it.
I mean, I once spent the whole day getting my hair cut and blown out because you said you thought Id be too brown for red hair so I went and got something that would work.
Because I wanted a change but I needed to accommodate to you.
HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!
I have told you so much, but there are pieces I have learned to keep hidden from you over these few months.
Perhaps, these are the parts I will eventually learn to compartmentalize and keep hidden from myself,
as well.
It’s no question in my mind:
When a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, it does not make a sound, it did not fall.
I don’t move on well.
I sit in a box labeled “Past Things.”
One of those boxes that you shove in the attic or basement and you keep your childhood dolls and high school awards in it.
I do not know why this is.
Maybe I don’t want to move on.
Do you think that’s it?
I’m sorry; that’s an unfair question, isn’t it?
Well, while I’m at it, can I ask more unfair questions?
Is there anything I can do?
I can be more honest or less harsh or less anxious or more quiet.
Do you like quiet girls? I could be a quiet girl.
Yes, I could certainly be one of those quiet girls.
Just tell me what to do it and I’ll do it.
I’m sorry.
I’m doing it again, aren’t I?
The thing you don’t like about me isn’t my hair color or my laugh that’s a bit too loud or anything like that.
It’s the questions and neediness. It's that isn't it?