See Me

Sometimes when you love someone, it hurts.

Sometimes I forget how much it hurt.

Seeing her actually hurt.

A real, tangible pain, and I was consumed by it. Drowning in it. I could feel it pour throughout my body like liquid fire, spreading through my legs and up my arms and over my shoulders and inside my chest and right into

My heart.

There is a reason, I have decided, why it is called falling in love. Not floating or flying or prancing or any other possible verb in the English dictionary that is or could be associated with something pleasurable. So it’s not as if the Universe hasn’t given us fair warning to the inevitable agony we are bound to experience, therefore I could not on an honest heart place my blame on fate for my pathetically doomed romantic intentions. It is my fault. My mistake for neglecting to notice that before you can be in love, you must first fall.

Head over heels is what they call it. Of course it is. No part of yourself is left the same after it begins. Gravity is swept up from underneath you and time makes the cruel decision to slow down to a steady trickle, allowing ample room for the realization of your hopeless predicament to dawn upon you. You can brace yourself all you like, talk yourself into a desperate state of denial, convince yourself it doesn’t matter, that you don’t care-

But let’s face the truth before it’s too late.

You do care. Big time.

The romantic dreamers of this world would argue that no matter how excruciating your dedication to one individual may feel, it cannot stand to measure up to the overwhelming joy connected the knowledge that you are not alone in your emotions. That that one person who first caught your eye and then your heart somehow feels the very same way that you do.

You are not crazy. You are not the lonely daydreamer at the back of the class, doodling scores of hearts along the uniform margins of your pages. You are not a stalker, or a loser or a loner. You are loved.

So all this pain, all this agony and angst and fear… it was worth it in the end.

Except that it wasn’t.

Except that out of the thousands of happy endings outlined in fairy tales and books and movies and magazines, I seemed to be the one, single exception. Because no matter how hard I tried or prayed or wished or wondered… she refused to see me.

And I fell hard.

Wallowing in my perpetual solitude, my days in the concrete prison that was my school passed by in dreary waves, classmates and teachers indistinguishable blurs amongst a sea of grey uniforms, my moments of clarity becoming fewer and farther in between.

Only one thing continued to stand out to me. One person that refused to fade away into the shadows and the blurs and the intricate patterns on the brick walls. One, single soul that brought me back to life in a way that both amazed me and tore my heart into pieces.

It was impossible not to notice her.  She was quiet and smart and lovely in everything that she did. A voice echoing in the recesses of my mind reminded me that I had done nothing to deserve such a gift, and yet my heart desired her anyway.

Love had become my own personal bubble wrap, sheltering me from the insecurities of the world, blinding me from the fact that these emotions were categorically ‘unrequited’. Love had drained away my concerns like water trickling through a sink, only blatantly ridiculous, mushy, mind numbingly stupid thoughts left behind. 

To put it simply, falling in love was the single most horrifying experience of my life. Out of nowhere my body was riddled with an all-consuming disease, depriving me of my ability to sleep, to eat, or even to have one, blessed thought in which she was not a part of.

I loved her with an intensity that frightened me to my very core, and with each second that ticked by my symptoms never ceased to grow. Despite the fact that I knew that this emotional tumour inside of me was terminal. Despite the fact that I knew it would kill me in the end.

Despite. Everything.

Because amidst the dark potency of my doubts and reality shone the smallest flicker of a flame.

Of hope.

A blessing gracing me with the belief that one day things would change. One day she would truly see me and she would smile and everything would be ok, just like that. I would say hello.  Just one simple word, holding so much promise beneath its surface. One day, she would say it back.

And we would go from there.

Sometimes I still feel crazy for believing in a story that had not yet come to life. People say that the future is a beautiful secret, that we should embrace the unknown, but I had already solved my mystery novel before she had even opened the first page…And I could see the ending so clearly. A perfect image forever imprinted in the forefront of my mind.

Had I known back then just how life would play out, perhaps I would have done things differently. Hindsight is a wonderful gift. It’s a shame that always comes too late.

So I refused to stop waiting. No matter how hopeless it seemed I continued to hope, never allowing my eyes to stray away from her face, from the shape of her lips to the silky wisps of hair that escaped the clutches of her ponytail. I would memorise every detail of who she was, and tolerating the pain for as long as I needed to because I knew that when things finally went my way, I would be ready.

Yes, looking at her hurt. But looking away hurt more.