I like pretending that I don’t care, that I don’t think about you every waking moment of every day. It makes the truth of reality a little less painful to accept, the fact that I never cross your thoughts.
But it’s hard to play pretend.
Maybe once, it was easier, back in the summer when we’d spend hours laying in the hot sand, talking about nothing and talking about everything. Back then I could convince myself that maybe you felt something towards me, that maybe those brushes of your fingertips against mine weren’t accidental, or that when your gaze drifted towards my mouth, you maybe thought about how it would feel pressed against yours.
But I know the truth, now, the truth that those were just accidental glances, that I had imagined feelings between us that weren’t really there.
Because we have to be honest; how could you, you with the impossible eyes and independent spirit and all of your perfect, wonderful flaws, love someone like me? Me, the quiet, ever-so-apologetic and clingy little girl?
But I need you. Living in my bones, coursing through my veins, moving through my bloodstream and pulsing with my heart; but you, you are unaware of it all, blissfully oblivious to my wants and desire and this throbbing need. To hold your hand would be the greatest gift, and to let my fingers whisper across your skin, like fingers gliding over lines on a map—even if only for a moment—would be better than the world, and all the galaxies beyond it.
Oh, I long for you. I long for you to want me, to need me like I need you. I crave for you in ways you can’t possibly understand, in a depth you cannot comprehend. I can only wish for it, for you, in whispered prayers, imagining one day they might be answered.
It’s hard to play pretend.
Perhaps this is poorly written, or maybe the prose isn’t all that great, or you didn’t feel the same emotions behind my words as I did, but this felt amazing to write. I went for a long run today and when I came back I just… I had to write this down. There’s really nothing quite as satisfying as being so locked into a moment that nothing can distract you, that the only thing in the room is you and your thoughts and your empty pages and the words that fill it. That’s how I felt when I wrote this.