quit feeling so righteous. grow up, little girl cynic, even if it feels like it's all you ever do. he didn't pick you, he never picked you, he won't pick you. why do you keep waiting for somebody that doesn't even consider you an option? in the same vein, why would you want to be an option? the least you could do is give yourself some credit and learn to have self-worth.
you aren't so innocent, though. remember all of the times you tugged back and forth because you were too afraid to make a choice? stop complaining. it won't do to think about all of the times you could have held his hand (you've stayed at his house, for goodness' sake), all the times you realized it would be great, that it would work, that this was exactly where you wanted to be. but you're more afraid of settling, aren't you? you're so much more selfish than you make it seem. force yourself to remember how amazing it felt when his friends recognized you without ever having met you. told you they were surprised someone like you existed. make yourself remember how it felt to be hugged by his mother and how happy she sounded when she whispered, "Let me hug you, I feel like I know you."
remember how that fucking felt, so you won't make the same mistake again.
his sister told you not to give up, didn't she? told you that if it were meant to be, another chance would come. but you know how you are. he doesn't even talk to you anymore. stop thinking about his hands or the sound of him playing the piano or his laugh or his quiet disapproval of the other boys that turned you down. why do you do this? why do you dwell on how much everything hurts and slaps you across the face? don't even bother trying to say that they're learning experiences, because you haven't learned anything, except how to bleed harder and cut yourself deeper.
whatever. misery sells; you said it yourself.
remember, little girl, what it was like to sit on his bed and finally have a picture of where he was when the two of you grew vines further and further entwined? what it was like, to have him bring out piece after piece of his life, his K-Nex models and his comics and to see pages of the letter you sent him spilled out across his desk? you wonder if the box you painted still sits on the desk just inside the hallway, where
you aren't so innocent, though. remember all of the times you tugged back and forth because you were too afraid to make a choice? stop complaining. it won't do to think about all of the times you could have held his hand (you've stayed at his house, for goodness' sake), all the times you realized it would be great, that it would work, that this was exactly where you wanted to be. but you're more afraid of settling, aren't you? you're so much more selfish than you make it seem. force yourself to remember how amazing it felt when his friends recognized you without ever having met you. told you they were surprised someone like you existed. make yourself remember how it felt to be hugged by his mother and how happy she sounded when she whispered, "Let me hug you, I feel like I know you."
remember how that fucking felt, so you won't make the same mistake again.
his sister told you not to give up, didn't she? told you that if it were meant to be, another chance would come. but you know how you are. he doesn't even talk to you anymore. stop thinking about his hands or the sound of him playing the piano or his laugh or his quiet disapproval of the other boys that turned you down. why do you do this? why do you dwell on how much everything hurts and slaps you across the face? don't even bother trying to say that they're learning experiences, because you haven't learned anything, except how to bleed harder and cut yourself deeper.
whatever. misery sells; you said it yourself.
remember, little girl, what it was like to sit on his bed and finally have a picture of where he was when the two of you grew vines further and further entwined? what it was like, to have him bring out piece after piece of his life, his K-Nex models and his comics and to see pages of the letter you sent him spilled out across his desk? you wonder if the box you painted still sits on the desk just inside the hallway, where
