Unsent messages of a troubled lover (what remained of the bits and pieces)

I sent her my notes, and she missed the three classes after that so far. Those were her first absences, and I know that because I have checked up on her everyday.

I was puzzled: Did she leave because of me or for other reasons? If she left because of me, was she bothered or in pain just like me? But it was all irrelevant. I have lost her forever. She took away the only medium of our meeting.

After I sent the notes, I imagined the worst scenario to be that she would show up and pretend like she’s read nothing. I realize now that that would have been heaven. The worst scenario is the one she’s chosen: For our story to end before it begins, just like an aborted child, or a seed that couldn’t reach the surface. I know I got carried away, but I have a good justification. My gut feeling which I have always trusted, was usually laid back. Never before has it pushed to sit next to someone, to talk to them, to be silly only in order to initiate something (anything), to ask them out in front of a fairly large group of observers. It gave me the illusion of confidence. I was certain that my gut feeling has only awaken this time because there was something.

My hope now is simply to get to see her again on campus. Not as strangers, as we used to be, but as love and admiration on one side and hate and disgust on the other. I don’t even hope for eye-contact, I simply want to see her acting like herself as a neutral observer.

The first thing I wrote, one week after I have seen her for the first time: “A spark. A candle in a dark desert night. A feeling of weightlessness, of floating in the air. An ability to feel the blood traveling through every cell. A primal instinct guiding every thought, decision, and action.”

“One key ingredient of so-called experience is the delusional faith that it is unique and special, that those included in it are privileged and those excluded from it are missing out” -Jennifer Egan, A Visit From The Goon Squad

“Where are you hiding, Dolores Haze?

Why are you hiding, darling?

(I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze,

I cannot get out, said the starling.)” -Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

I have changed my pen to a pencil, and retired the clothes I wore when she said no. Weak attempts to feel less helpless.

The next two days [after she rejected me] were cold and rainy, I deserved neither warmth nor comfort.

I said “I want to be close enough to know what exists, but far enough to suffer alone without humiliation” and I was shown both, the pinnacle of female beauty and the pinnacle of male suffering.

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