Post by Dovahkiin on Aug 10, 2016 1:45:56 GMT -5
Love hurts. It's the kind of thing you'd see written on some 12-year-old girl's binder in bubble letters, or perhaps a slight alteration of a Def Leppard lyric, but it really is true. It's not often what you see in the movies or musicals. It's a special kind of hell, one that makes you feel floaty and invincible, yet sinking and vulnerable at the same time. And it's a kind of hell I'd say I'm familiar with.
She was perfect. The epitome of poise and teenage beauty. She was taller than me, significantly so, but I never felt that it limited anything. Her gait, the way she walked, was hypnotizing, and whenever she was in the room I couldn't help but stare. Her smile was bewitching. She had a musical quality to her voice that just sucked you in, made you feel like a fly caught in her web.
But she was always kind. She never insulted me, even jokingly, and I think she genuinely enjoyed my company, which was a fairly new sensation for me. I'm not very trusting, but I never suspected an ulterior motive behind her disposition, save for perhaps one of pity.
I still remember when we met. She was already friends with a few of my acquaintances, which made the gap from strangers to friends ourselves that much shorter. I remember thinking, Oh wow she's cute, then immediately falling into this special hell. It certainly wasn't my idea, but I couldn't fault her either.
I'm not sure even now if it truly was love I felt, and I certainly didn't know then. I just knew that this feeling was so much stronger, so much more powerful than when I had crushes on boys in the past. I was much more self-conscious about everything, my looks, how I came across in conversations, even how I stood. When I saw her, my legs turned to jelly. My heart skipped several beats. I was a stuttering, sweating, talkative mess. I always tried to be myself around her, but some small voice always told me that myself wasn't good enough, and sometimes I listened. I was more of a caricature at this point, even more self-deprecating for the sake of my humour, though mostly all the self-deprecation was real by then. It was ridiculous. I knew it was ridiculous, and yet I continued.
Then one day, the bomb hit. I had always suspected that it was impossible for her to harbour feelings for me, but I never quite let go of that last shred of hope, though my dignity was long gone. I never heard it from her directly, never told her how I felt, but I knew. And I think she might have known too. My friends were telling me how obvious I was getting. That they saw me steal long, wistful glances at her from across rooms. I felt stupid. Really, truly idiotic. And yet I persisted. But at this point, this was beyond me.
She didn't like me back. She couldn't. I respected that. I knew she wasn't at fault, but I felt like someone was to blame. And though I knew it wasn't really my fault either, I took it out on myself, though I don't think I knew I was at the time. I withdrew all of my emotions, stuffing them into the very back of my mind, and where they had vacated, numbness crept in. The pain was starting to dull, ever so slightly, but my feelings for her never dissipated. In truth, they still haven't.
This may seems cheesy and hyperbolic at times, but I took the time to write this out, and it's not up to me to make you believe it. Those feelings were real. As real as the hell they had come from. Even now, as a write this, I think to myself, "I think I really do love her."
And admitting that hurts more than anything.
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She was perfect. The epitome of poise and teenage beauty. She was taller than me, significantly so, but I never felt that it limited anything. Her gait, the way she walked, was hypnotizing, and whenever she was in the room I couldn't help but stare. Her smile was bewitching. She had a musical quality to her voice that just sucked you in, made you feel like a fly caught in her web.
But she was always kind. She never insulted me, even jokingly, and I think she genuinely enjoyed my company, which was a fairly new sensation for me. I'm not very trusting, but I never suspected an ulterior motive behind her disposition, save for perhaps one of pity.
I still remember when we met. She was already friends with a few of my acquaintances, which made the gap from strangers to friends ourselves that much shorter. I remember thinking, Oh wow she's cute, then immediately falling into this special hell. It certainly wasn't my idea, but I couldn't fault her either.
I'm not sure even now if it truly was love I felt, and I certainly didn't know then. I just knew that this feeling was so much stronger, so much more powerful than when I had crushes on boys in the past. I was much more self-conscious about everything, my looks, how I came across in conversations, even how I stood. When I saw her, my legs turned to jelly. My heart skipped several beats. I was a stuttering, sweating, talkative mess. I always tried to be myself around her, but some small voice always told me that myself wasn't good enough, and sometimes I listened. I was more of a caricature at this point, even more self-deprecating for the sake of my humour, though mostly all the self-deprecation was real by then. It was ridiculous. I knew it was ridiculous, and yet I continued.
Then one day, the bomb hit. I had always suspected that it was impossible for her to harbour feelings for me, but I never quite let go of that last shred of hope, though my dignity was long gone. I never heard it from her directly, never told her how I felt, but I knew. And I think she might have known too. My friends were telling me how obvious I was getting. That they saw me steal long, wistful glances at her from across rooms. I felt stupid. Really, truly idiotic. And yet I persisted. But at this point, this was beyond me.
She didn't like me back. She couldn't. I respected that. I knew she wasn't at fault, but I felt like someone was to blame. And though I knew it wasn't really my fault either, I took it out on myself, though I don't think I knew I was at the time. I withdrew all of my emotions, stuffing them into the very back of my mind, and where they had vacated, numbness crept in. The pain was starting to dull, ever so slightly, but my feelings for her never dissipated. In truth, they still haven't.
This may seems cheesy and hyperbolic at times, but I took the time to write this out, and it's not up to me to make you believe it. Those feelings were real. As real as the hell they had come from. Even now, as a write this, I think to myself, "I think I really do love her."
And admitting that hurts more than anything.
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