drunkencynic's Diaryland Diary

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what i can't say

From : Sarah
Sent : Wednesday, December 31, 2003 3:06 PM
To : JR
Subject : what I can't say

I have to get this out, and I know you don't want to hear it, but it's eating me up inside. I can't seem to express myself verbally, particularly face-to-face, so this appears to be the only option. It's likely to be stilted and probably not a little ridiculous, but please hear me out.

On the phone the night before I left, you said something that paralyzed me and (quite frustratingly) occupied my mind for the better part of the trip. Two words. Quite simply. "Too late." It was in response to my assertion that you could fall for me, in case you've blocked it out.

Needless to say, it wasn't anything I didn't know, but I turned the words over and over in my head, trying to figure out if it meant what I thought it meant. What I hoped it meant.

Do you remember that night I finally blurted out what I'd been so afraid to? I said I was afraid I was falling in love with you. You blanched, and stalled, and finally apologized. The thing is, JR, I don't want your apologies. I don't want to be your girlfriend, either.

I've fallen in love with you. There. I said it. Tempted as I am to delete this email, it's useless if it only ends up in my recycle bin.

I didn't want to fall in love with you, I tried not to, but I did. In all honesty, I believe I'd fallen in love with you a long time ago. But I tend to confuse things like love and comfort and lust and attraction. There's something about you, JR. I don't know what it is. I only know that when you walk into the room, it brightens. I know, that's incredibly clichéd and sentimental, but I can't think of any other way to describe it. I find myself searching for you in a crowd. I can't help it. And when you leave the room, my interest invariably wanes.

I know there's a part of you that thinks I'm only out for attention, and yes, that's partly true. I do want your attention. But the sad, sordid truth of the matter is that I really only want your attention. It's the only kind that comes close to satisfying me. And you do give it so nicely.

But there's something else, and it's the more disturbing of the two. I really, truly enjoy your friendship. I like hanging out with you, even platonically. I like our banter, our joking around, our discussions. Our talking about nothing.

I've always felt that you understand me better than anyone else I know. Even while I was 'in love' with Milo, even when I thought he was my soulmate, the truth that I tried to keep from surfacing was that you understood me even better than he did. (to say nothing of Thomas, hah)

You've always captured my attention, my interest. I feel like I could talk to you forever, and never, ever get tired of it.

What is that? Am I confusing comfort and love again? What is love, anyway? Does it even exist? I like to be cynical, but the truth is I'm longing for you and walking into doors again. Maybe love is clumsiness. Falling in love with you is the ultimate clumsiness, isn't it?

And here I come to the question, the notion, that's been plaguing me. Maybe it isn't even a question. Because I think I know the answer, even if you don't. You're in love with me. You must be. I hate the way that sounds, so needy and narcissistic. But it's in the way you look at me sometimes, it's in the things you say when you forget to censor yourself. That night when I was on top of you and you looked up at me and said, "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen..." That sentiment kept me flying for weeks.

Maybe I'm just a silly, naive little girl. Maybe I'd like to be in love, and I've conjured it all up out of wishful thinking. It's entirely possible. But maybe you, who know me better that anyone, can tell me the answer. I think you know. And I wish you would let go for a second and admit it.

Sarah




Did I just do what I think I did?

3:22 p.m. - 2003-12-31

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