Crush
TW: mention of self harmÂ
Itâs scary, the way that sly smile can render me so helpless, leaving me grinning at the wind in my face as I stare out the window to hide my blush. That mop of hair bouncing around so dynamically, as if you were a cartoon character and not mortal like the rest of us. Youâve changed, since the last time I met you. Youâre more confident, in how you allow yourself to be seen so easily, your physical appearance no longer mortifying to yourself. Your front tooth is broken, the bottom uneven but rounded from years of use. Like a window into your soul, every time you grin.Â
Your glasses are still comically large,, but strangely fitting your long face. You always slouch, hands held delicately in front of you, arms pressed to your sides. You seem so different, and it seems impossible for anyone to change drastically in a few months. Or maybe itâs simply my perception of you that has changed, maybe Iâm not so harsh on you anymore.
And the same comments that you made a few months ago that outraged me are nowhere to be found. And now Iâm stuck here, waiting for a sign. A sign that you are the same person I used to detest with every fibre of my mind, body and soul. But I have changed too, no longer bold enough to probe and prod you into an argument. And it has occurred to me, that even if you hold those values, it would make almost no difference to me.Â
And for that, I can never forgive you. With your strange charm that I should find ridiculous, I am left questioning where all my unshakable morals have disappeared to, Where has that girl gone, who used to get so fired up while you answered lazily?Â
Perhaps it is a sign, that the war inside me is over. That I am more self assured, more rooted. Maybe I just donât care enough anymore.Â
I wonder if you catch me staring at your nape, eyes heavy with sleep as I try to figure you out. Or if you ever look at me as I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the gecko that perches outside our classroomâs window, wondering what I could possibly be doing. Have you ever caught yourself looking at the strange way my white shirts puffs up around my skirt, as I hurriedly tug on it. I hope you have.Â
Because all I can notice is the way you close your eyes as you sit in the corner, playing some kind of game of chance. And when I get closer, I realise youâre trying your hardest to figure out the outcome of a football match. Or when you wait for teachers to correct your notebooks, towering over them as you nervously fidget with your fingers. Or how it sometimes occurs to me that youâve never moved to adjust your thick black hair, your fringe sitting oddly after you play, making you look like a mushroom. Or the way you light up with joy when you tell your team about the new jersey your mom bought you, or the seriousness in your eyes when you tell me the importance of maintaining your cleats.Â
I hope with everything I have that you donât know about that.
âŠ
I have granted myself three months of turmoil. Three months of desperately unravelling at every loose thread of my personality, of my previously unshakeable self-assurance. I am undone, and you know no better of it. And I stand, with the ash of the worlds I burned inside my own mind falling to my feet, with an overwhelming realisation that I was wrong. Wrong in the foolish way I hoped that you had a moment's attention for me, a moment to turn me over in your mind. Wrong in the reality I convinced myself of that portrayed you as the oblivious picture-perfect main character, as you got less oblivious when you saw me.
And all I can do is thank myself for allowing myself no humiliation, for keeping every thought silent. This drastic change in opinion will be mine alone, and no one will ever believe it if they were told of this. Because it is unbelievable. It is unbelievable of the lies I conceived to justify anything and everything you did, no matter how questionable.Â
It is, perhaps, agreeable to forgive myself for this. Forgive myself for those three months of turmoil, of constantly questioning everything I did, for constantly analysing every word you said to me. You have friends, I am not one of them.
It still comes as a shock to me, how I played off you decreeing my every faith as a lack of reasoning and thought to a mere difference in thought. A difference in thought is when two people like their eggs cooked differently. What you and I had was not a mild disagreement, it was an earth-shattering disregard of an entire community of people on your side, and a foolishly blind justification on mine.
I hope I can one day tell you this.
âŠ
Oddly enough, I have made some sort of peace with youâa friendship, of kinds. I have made my peace, I have accepted that this all I will get. When you text me, I donât panic. I no longer worry about how you perceive me, because I know you donât care. Last night, I had a panic attack. Shaking and panting, sunken to the bathroom floor. The hard marble cradled me, and my knuckles whitened at how tightly I gripped my phone. Trying to calm down, trying to get the tears to fall and the tension behind my nose to releaseâI texted you. A flurry of messages, about something meaningless and inconsequential.Â
You had no way of knowing what was happening, and I didnât trust myself enough to say anything. So instead, I listened to your jabber and let myself cling to the words on my screen. And you may be a terrible person, with messed up ideas. And you may be moronic, and stupid, and every other synonym in the dictionary. And I may hate myself for it, for ever looking at you with anything but indifferenceâbut I canât help it.
Last night, without ever realising it, you pulled me out of my own head. You grabbed me by the hand, and pulled and pulled until I was sure my wrist would snapâand I came out the other side, my breath steadier and my hands less shaky.Â
I hate you, and I hate myself too. Except I know that I could never hate you, and I hate myself even more for it. And I hope one day, long after we meet for the last time, long after we part ways on good terms, I will meet you again. I will meet you again and I will be able to tell you how hopelessly enamoured I was by you, and you will forgive me for it.Â
I pray I am in your class next year, so I can have a little more time staring at the back of your head and hating myself for it.
âŠ
I can grudgingly admit nowâwe are friends. To some extent, in some situations. I do not acknowledge you outside of the bus we share, but withinâwe are friends. Itâs undeniable, in every form. And it pains me, that we are friends. It pains me, to be allowed to talk to you and ask you questions and receive answers. Because now I have seen what I mightâve had, in another universe.Â
Youâre sadder now. More sombre, your grief about the world changing enveloping you. I forget, sometimes, how long its been since Iâve come to terms with this fact that you are being introduced to now. The fact that people move on, even if you donât. That itâs never easy. I took it better than you did.
If I had the power, Iâd vanish every sharp object that ever came your way, surrounding you with just circles and softness. So I wouldnât have to look at the canvas of red on your arm, and feel your grief collide with mine.
âI canât take it anymore.â
Thatâs what you said. And I realised, I know nothing about you. Two years Iâve known you, in varying degrees of intimacy, and I know absolutely nothing about you. I am no closer to figuring out how your mind works than I ever was. Â
I hate you. But also, I know with every fibre of my being that I could never hate you. And for that, I hate myself.
I hope I never forget you, and I wish I never knew you at all.
âŠ
I am flawed. I am self-obsessed, and vain, and attenyion seeking. And I am a liar. I lie, and I lie, and I lie. I lie to make myself seem more interesting, and I lie to convince myself I am alright. I change, metamorphosising to fit right with the people I am with. I know now, that I am none of these things. I am wretched, and miserable, and if I wasnât so subconsciously filled to the brim with propriety, I would crumple to the floor and sob. Not over you. Or myself. Or anything in particular, really. I am unravelling. I am unravelling, not because I am sad, because I am discovering the depth of this sorrow. What am I sad about?
You are as fascinating as ever. You seem happier now, your arms unmarked. Some days I can do little more than sink to the shower floor and let the water fill my eyes-my ears-my mouth-my nose. I am trying to drown in an inch of water, and am frustrated when it doesnât work.Â
I am hungry these days. I like the feeling, the ache, the desperation. The desireâfor anything. I snack on almonds, and carrots, and cucumbersâdoused in dressing. And I am discontent when I realise how little I weigh. I dont think itâs about being thin, but I also donât know what it is about. Maybe I just wish someone would dote on me, tell me to eat more. Notice when I give away my lunches. Forget to drink water for hours. You would notice, in another universe.Â














