Feeling

I know how it is to have unrequited feelings for someone.

I know how it feels to have someone walk out of your life before you’re ready, even though she might not necessarily have left abruptly.

I know how it feels to keep looking for a certain face wherever you go; to prepare to leave your house with the chief thought in your head being, “I might see her today.”

I know how it feels to send a group text to your friends and hope she replies; to hope, whenever your phone rings, that the SMS you just received is from her. I know how it feels to have that hope dashed day in and day out.

I know how it feels to be on Facebook, see her name pop up on your Online Contacts list, restrain yourself from sending her a private message, and post a link on your Wall to make it seem as though everything were alright and that you didn’t even notice her go online, only to find yourself checking your notifications every few seconds in the hopes that she added a comment to your post.

I know the feeling of lying in bed, or eating your dinner, or being on your commute, and thinking about her, about how she used to make you laugh, and about how much you enjoyed her company; I know the feeling of catching yourself wearing a wide grin, of having to scold yourself for thinking about her when you damn well know those days are long over.

I know how it feels to talk to her, to share a laugh and crack jokes with her, only to wake up feeling pathetic for grinning over a dream that’s likely a product of your subconscious’s wishful thinking.

I know how it feels to smile—even laugh—when you think of her; I know the feeling of being saddened by the fact that she makes you happy.

I know how it feels to want to pick your phone up, call her, and ask her what you did or said to make you and her fall apart; to tell her that you’re sorry you came on too strong, that you’re not asking for her affection, just for her friendship back. I know how it feels to want to knock on her door and tell her you have feelings for her, pour your heart out on her front porch, then run away.

I know what it’s like to spend an entire night writing her a letter you will never send her, a letter where you tell her everything you want to tell her. A letter that will remain in your possession and nowhere near where you know it needs to be.

I know how the feeling of talking to yourself and convincing yourself that her leaving is, in a way, a good thing—better have everything stop when you’re still friends, than let the whole thing go on: you trying very hard to make her happy while watching her love someone else, her making you smile with the mere bat of an eyelash.

I know how it is to be going somewhere far away in a few weeks’ time and wanting so badly to have a moment with her, even just a short, fleeting moment, just so you can say a proper “goodbye, I’m leaving, you’re one of the best friends anyone can hope for, you’re one heck of a girl and I truly, deeply wish you well,” before relegating to fate any chance of you and her seeing each other again in the near future.

I know how it feels to be alone in your room in the middle of the night, pretending to have that last conversation with her, knowing as you do that it will never happen.

You’re not sure if the friendship’s over; you have no reason to think it is, aside of course from the pervasive silence of the past few months. You spend your days wondering what you did and what you can do. You transition from thinking of the situation as a broken car in need of repair to thinking of it as a delicate house of cards that is precariously built and in danger of collapsing, but one that you should under no circumstances touch, lest you hasten its destruction.

You begin to pack your bags, hoping to find a chance to start anew when you leave, wondering if the Universe permits a new door to be opened before an old one is closed.

–
Dean
writes here,
and you can follow him
on Twitter here.