grapefruit tea

Letting Go (11.2007.)

So you’ve been seeing him for two years. Two of your best years, two of your carefree years, two of your pretty years when everything is toned and perky and you’re never going to be as thin or as beautiful as you are now. But now he’s gone (gone gone) and it hurts (so much) but you’re not sure; you’re never sure.

And maybe you knew this wasn’t going to last when you first met him. Maybe you knew when you first caught sight of his long dark hair and beautiful hazel eyes that were always looking at you, but never at you. Maybe that was the first of many signs, but you were drawn to him anyway, to his low baritone voice and easy laugh.

When he asked you out for dinner, you didn’t refuse because you’d seen the way all the girls in the lecture hall looked at him– the same way you probably looked at him, so you counted yourself lucky and accepted, and that led to the first of many dates where you fell more and more in love with him; from the way he captured everyone’s attention (even yours) to how he was sure and ready about everything except love, and maybe (maybe) you should have realized it then but you didn’t until it was too late and now you’re cursing yourself for not seeing the signs earlier.

And the funny thing– the saddest, most tragic thing– is that you never liked his type at all, until you met him. You always fell for blonds in high school, sandy-haired soccer players who knew your name but not much else, whom you stared at across the cafeteria or behind a math textbook in the library. But then you met him and you couldn’t remember their names or faces and all you could think of was his dark hair, the way his bangs fell across his forehead and the way his lips twitched whenever he hid a smile. You want to forget but you can’t because he’s gone (gone gone) but the memories stay and no amount of wishing can erase them.

You wonder if he chose you by mistake because there are plenty of prettier girls out there, prettier girls who followed him to class, who batted their eyelashes and cooed at him, the way you never could. You still can’t believe that he chose you, because—this is funny, so so funny that it’s actually tragic in an Elizabethan sense– you always thought he had a thing for blondes himself.

Because you’d noticed from the start, you’d seen the way his head turned at every passing blonde, and not in a construction worker way, but in a wondering have I see you before? way that always made you want to ask, but you never did and now you never will because he’s gone (gone gone) and you missed your chance, but for two years, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror and looked at your auburn hair and the bottle of peroxide that lived in the cabinet underneath the sink and wondered, wondered if it was time for a change– if it would matter, and now you wonder if you should have gone through with it after all because you had absolutely nothing to lose.

When it was over (really over) you asked around, asked his old friends, asked his old classmates if he had ever gone out with a blonde girl and they said no. You even asked about guys, because really, maybe it was really him and not you like he said, but nothing ever came of it and now you don’t know and it’s better to know than not, but you’re stuck with no answer, no actual reason why—only the memory of his sincere apology at the front steps of the Met and his quick and sudden transfer to M.I.T.

And you think, I hope She’s happy because it’s obvious to you and he’s chasing after Her and it’s probably unrequited and maybe he deserves it– but no, you want him to be happy even though he broke your heart.

So you sleep, and you cry, and you gain five pounds on chocolate and ice cream alone because he was perfect, the prince on a white horse who was supposed to be just for you. He had the piercing hazel-green eyes that you loved, the long, dark brown hair that you wanted to brush out of his eyes, and the smile that made you believe in the sickly sweet true love of movies like The Princess Bride and Love Actually.

And worst of all, you know that he never loved you, or rather he did love you, just not in that way–the way he was supposed to. You know because he never complained, not about the hours you worked or how obnoxious your friends are. He cherished you, in his own special way, and now you know you were his failed attempt to forget about Her. But it’s obvious that that didn’t work and that actually, you probably didn’t love love him because even though he made you breathless and stirred up the butterflies in your stomach, you fell for him because you craved perfection (and he was perfection) but you also needed someone to meet you half-way—who needed you as much as you needed him.

So you know he’s your first heartache and maybe the last, and even though you wasted two of your best years on him, and it hurts (still hurts) because he’s gone (gone gone), you’re ready to move on and live your life and forget about this boy and his haunting eyes and beautiful smile. So when the boy in your philosophy class invites you to watch his band play, you accept because you’re (finally) going to forget about him, you’re (finally) letting go of the past.

Only in the back of your mind, you hear a voice whisper softly: but you’re not sure, you’re never sure.

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Sophomore Year by Stacy