It was the longest two-minutes conversation, the longest bus ride home, and the longest time I have ever took to change and neatly place my (specially picked) clothes in the drawer. That’s where they should remain forever, and if they couldn’t win me your favor, they are of no use.
I use ‘win’ rather than ‘earn’ your favor on purpose. My dear [X], there was never any doubt in my mind that you were above every man’s league. There was never any doubt that I am to you what a moth is to a radiant light, what a slave is to a goddess. But it is not uncommon for a slave to pitifully fall for a goddess.
I am truly sorry to have been that awkward incident in your history. But, you see, my plan was to make our own brilliant history. Forgive me, and forget me.
See, [X], I was more in shock and denial than in pain. Our conversation seems foggy, as if it happened years ago or in another life. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I know it definitely deviated from the lines I have memorized ever since I met you. I remember my pause, when the small talk was over, and your lovely eyes were inquiring of why I asked to talk to you. The part I clearly remember, is that you smiled, looked away, rejected me, and said sorry. Your friend, who excused us, was watching from afar. I passed by her leaving while looking at the ground, half of my mouth courteously smiling, and the other half could not be moved at all.
There is a very small part of me that, kind of, believes (or hopes) I did not ask you out, and you did not give me the solid and clear excuse of having a boyfriend back home. The arguments that I have devised for a possible rejection became irrelevant. Could I accuse you of lying when you were being sweet and caring? Even if you did have a boyfriend, could I advice you to leave him for me and, by the same logic, leave me for your next admirer?
I wonder, did I ruin the possibility by looking for certainty? If this never happened, maybe you would have always stayed my possible true love. The girl that I will think about everyday with the possibility that she does like me back.
I wonder, if I should move to a different French class. Seeing you everyday, close but unattainable, might prove to be too much. But I think, maybe, just maybe, one day, for some reason, you might love me back. Maybe my fault was not looking at you, not talking to you, or not smiling at you enough.
See, the problem is, moths do not understand that they cannot acquire the light, and they keep crashing into it over and over and over. You might say I just need to “unlove” you, and to move on. But, see, the problem is, even if you were the most narcissistic woman, you will never have the slightest idea of the effect you have on me, and on every other moth.