Hey, it’s okay. I know why you like her. She’s the sweetest girl, probably the sweetest girl you’ve ever met. It’s okay to want her. Life knows what it wants and sweetness is good.
Just don’t creep her out, man. That isn’t love.
I mean, yeah, sure, you were a total douche–have been a total douche everytime she’s there–stop it. Don’t creep her out. don’t go anywhere near her when the only thought running through your head is to create demand and provide supply. That’s not what cool is, man. That’s not how you make people’s lives better. That just makes you pathetic.
You want her to know? Course you do. All feelings worth feeling wish to be free, but don’t pull her aside and creep her out with some drawn out marketing spiel out of nowhere. You’ll get your chance, the right time and place, just be cool.
No. Do not text her.
Do not say you’re sorry for being a douche when you don’t even mean it. An apology is not an excuse to talk to someone; it’s a promise to be kinder. I know exactly what you want and it has nothing to do with being sincere and better. A single reply is all you want. An opportunity to stretch one sentence into the longest idle conversation you possibly could cos table scraps are better than nothing is not love–this is not cool. I know what you want and there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be with someone.
Right place, right time; her terms, but your words; her rules, but your choice. Love is not a game but desire is–learn to know the difference. You don’t actually even have to play at all. Nobody wins when you belittle life.
Just be cool.
Cool is not what you’re thinking. Cool is a state of mind. It’s one thing to be cool, another thing to play it cool. It’s one thing to be awesome, it’s a whole other thing to pretend you are. Learn to know the difference.
And I know, believe me, I know how it feels. There’s nothing wrong with what you feel. What you feel exists for itself. She doesn’t even have to know what you know, taste what you taste, devour your books, close her eyes to your music, warm from your smile, or even touch what you touch.
It’s enough that you smile. How often do you even smile? Not often enough I think.
It’s enough that you know her. It’s enough that the mere sight of her fills you with soft, golden fire and only you could see the flames. It’s enough that she exists.
It’s enough that words could paint her portrait even if she’ll never see it. Love is selfish; love doesn’t need eyes. It is its own pursuit so be well, be lucky–enough to be alive and feel the void burst with butterflies fluttering everywhere. It hurts, I know, to have to keep all that inside you, but pain is good when nothing is empty. Bear it, inside, just because it makes you smile.
Bittersweet, I know.
But at least she’s here.
She is real.