You've likely heard me say that I despise special occasions for the sentimentality which accompanies each one. There is a caveat—I don't mind that each minute spent with you creates memories similar to the warm holidays you describe vividly. Like last Tuesday night when we saw each other at the gas station down the street. We sat on the curb drinking day old coffee until you got me talking and when I finally looked up from the dark ground bits at the bottom of my cup, I saw how wide your eyes had gotten in concentration as you watched my excitement while I spoke on the things that inspire me. You do not just listen, but participate willingly in the intimacy of connection. I suppose I might have mistaken fondness for the same type of love you make me feel.
I lack the bravery to come to you where I know I can find you. I lack the tact needed to tell you why I've been so withdrawn lately. How are you supposed to know that I get nervous when you don't reciprocate every compliment, or that I have trouble taking your many apologies at face value because so many people have found it exciting to derive satisfaction from my tendency to easily forgive? How are you supposed to know that I understand you've got good, clear intentions, but that I am more inclined to be irrational so my head tells me you must enjoy toying with someone who seems desperate for kindness? And how were you supposed to know that all those months ago when I told you in passing that I just liked being around you, I meant I was all-in, that I was intentionally holding space for you, and that because this happens so rarely, I would do my best to never mistreat you?
Is it bad that on my way home from the mall with your small gift in the passenger seat of my car, I pictured what Christmas this year could look like with you and me? You'd pick me up because it rained earlier that day and made the streets frosty. I hate driving in even the slightest of rain, so ice is naturally something I avoid ardently. I'd answer the door in my black boots that gave off a dull shine under the porch light, my favorite white button-down shirt with the big sleeves that my tank top shows through when I slouch, and a plain black skirt that compliments anything it's paired with. You'd be standing in front of me with your blonde-streaked hair meticulously flawless, wearing something that barely matched me but somehow worked so long as you stayed close behind. At your house I'd meet everyone you talk about—your cousins, siblings, I'd see your mom again—and as I met them you'd lightly tap the back of my hand in appreciation. In the kitchen I would thank your mom for allowing me into her home, all as I gave offers to help cook and clean because that's what has always been expected of me. While trying to omit the jealousy which sometimes seeps out when I talk to others on the things you were easily given which I do not have, I would tell her how I'd never spent Christmas with family in the way you get to do on any holiday. I pictured it almost 1am and your mom had told you to dance with me or else your brother would, to which I'd loudly refuse out of concern that doing so would ruin the delicate balance we'd been trying to keep. But you would take my hand without much hesitation and bring me around the couch to dance with everyone else in the yellow-tinted living room. The first song we'd laugh all the way through, my hands loosely clasped behind your neck and your arms lightly wrapped around my waist, finally getting closer, then slowing down to my favorite rendition of Unchained Melody. You'd look at me in that way you sometimes do, hesitant to speak, and I'd focus on anything but your face because I know what I'd be inclined to do. And in the last minute of the song, you and I would look at each other in the longing way we tend to when saying goodbye, knowing in that moment we had the same intentions although we'd been silently reassuring ourselves we were barely even friendly. I'd look at you again; you'd kiss me sweetly to match your bright personality, I'd kiss you back devotedly to match my earnest.
How are you supposed to know that last Christmas I told myself I'd find a reason to fill the empty picture frame my sister gifted me which still sits neatly in its box?
I don't tell you any of this to try and convince you of my affection or to crudely say, You're missing out big time, mister!, but rather to be honest because I feel like that's what you deserve. I don't think you deserve my tendencies to be avoidant until I break down and go back to people-pleasing at the first sign of conflict. I can't help but use my eyelash wishes on you, always careful to be specific so the universe doesn't have a sense of humor like it tends to. I sabotage the deliberate meaninglessness of us every time I practice the idea of you and me in my head. I feel disgust every time I find you planted in the places I know you'll be; you are always outfitted with the knowledge to expect me, you know our routine. I think it would be nice if we could pretend this was nothing more than what we've tried to make it and like we didn't know the other so well. I wish I didn't hear about your other friends and the funny things they said which reminded you of me, or what you told your brother when he lost his favorite sweater on the bus ride home from school last week. And I hate that a Christmas which brought you and me together in the way you know we should be is folklore; a daydream to make me feel more out-of-place when standing next to you. I know you are a nice guy who will say nice things to see someone smile or to make himself feel better about the way he's inclined to think the worst of people. In the instance of you and me, you said nice things to a girl who's rarely had someone say nice things to her, let alone mean them. And maybe I'm wrong about us, but I don't think that I am. No matter how careful I am with wording or how slowly I may take this, I don't think you're ready to be someone to me. I don't think you want to. I am simply resolved to give into the forced way of thinking that there's little sense in being mad at you for not reciprocating something you didn't want in the first place.
