Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

Maybe if things happened differently…

It’s the second grade. Much of my life is composed of fort building, “the floor is lava”, and other forms of pretending. Day dreams float around my mind as the teacher shows the class how to multiply by zero. There, in my seat, I notice a girl on the other side of the room. She’s pretty. I’ve never thought about a girl like that. Based on an attractive exterior, a crush is born. The crush persists through a few years. She’s so pretty. It’s the last day of fifth grade, and I have never said a single word to her yet.

Now I’m in the sixth grade. My mind is focused on video games, funny jokes, and lust brought on by puberty. A paste of acne covers my forehead. The old crush is quickly replaced by another pretty face. Communication actually occurs. We talk and we laugh. I tell her I have a crush on someone, but I don’t tell her who. Word gets around quickly on secretless sixth grade lips. My heart is pounding, she must know. She is so pretty and so flirtatious. She sprays her perfume into my mouth as I turn around. The taste is poisonous, but I still enjoy the play. Now she is telling me she knows who I desire. I ask her who and she informs me, coldly, that I have a crush on her. I lay my head down. Her words of comfort are: “It’s okay, I know what it’s like to like someone who doesn’t like you back.” My heart sinks deeper into misery.

On to the seventh grade. The pretty girl has moved to another school, never again to remind me of what occured. Now I begin to fancy someone new. She is also pretty, also flirtatious, but all her friends are boys. She is liked by many. Many risk asking the ultimate question. They all receive an unyielding rejection. I continue to talk to her. She laughs alot, never a serious moment. Again, word travels through the talkative mouths of middle schoolers. Her friend divulges my poorly kept secret. She knows, and she is obviously disturbed. I figure I might as well attempt some form of romantic appeal. It’s Valentine’s Day. I bring to her a crummy carnation, one of the last the school has for sale for one dollar. Her answer is the ever so harmful, dreadfully brief no. Consumed by grief, I consume the flower I had so carelessly offered. The rancid flavor of ovaries, stamen, and petals runs amok over my taste buds. The laughter I generate through my actions does little to cheer me up. A little over a year later, it is the last day of eighth grade. I still have a small amount of feeling for the same girl. She is still pretty. I attempt to give her a hug. She shrinks back, afraid, never to play a major role in my life again. I feel like some sort of monster.

Highschool begins. Not one of my friends from middle school ventures to where I enroll. The first year is filled with unfamiliar faces, but good friends are made. I meet another girl in the tenth grade. This one is beautiful and a little flirtatious, but much different. Sadness is in her eyes. I fall in love. Her presence is enough to make me shake. She thinks I’m cute. Her eyes stare holes through my mind, so full of knowing and melancholy. During the summer months, I gather enough courage to send her a half serious text message, asking for a simple date. The stars align. She says yes. Some weeks later I pick her up in my mini-van. We drive to the theater, and I take several minutes to parallel park. Awkwardness saturates every word I mumble out. She is so calm, so unique, and so beautiful. I take her home, never to date her again. A few months later, I walk down an empty hallway. I glance down the stairwell to find her against a wall, with her lover up against her wearing an eager grin. My whole body experiences a hot rush. They don’t noticed me. I continue down the hallway, the sudden flood of heat replaced by cool numbness.

She still chats with me. Eventually she is single again, but I never build courage. I decide that I don’t want to love her anymore, but she keeps talking to me. Fed up with hopeless love, I tell her off. Communication halts noiselessly. She is plagued by esteem issues, and she believes noone likes her. She is the lovliest thing I have ever laid eyes on, and she is infinitely lonely. Now I’m lonely too.

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3 Comments on “Maybe if things happened differently…”

  1. A says:

    took some guts to write something so maddeningly personal.

    well done.

  2. I concur. I know now why you cry. =/

  3. M says:

    whoa.
    you really made me feel like i was witnessing everything you were describing, and not going to lie…it was kind of tortureous(sp?) at times.
    but i agree with A, it took alot of guts to write something like this down and publish it. you really put your self out there and i completely look up to you because of it.


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