I think about you a lot. Sometimes in benign ways, sometimes in loving ways, sometimes in sadness, or in hope. I’d like to imagine we’ll grow old together, laugh like we do now when we’re well into our 70’s. The kind of love I have for you is different than the ones I’ve felt before. I’ve written about how it’s functional, but it’s also warming. Frustrating. Endearing. Something worth working at. I think you’re a special kind of person, just a little better than the rest. Your sense of humor is something else, and I feel satisfied when I’m around you. We just vibe.
I worry about you a lot. I know I’ve been reckless in the past, but when I know you are being harmful to yourself, it bothers me. I want to help you be the healthiest version of yourself, so it hurts to see you drunk or high. Hypocritical, right? I get plastered and high off my ass, and then don’t want you to.
I worry you’ll cheat. Or leave me for someone else. I know you know a lot of rich, hot, athletic girls who go to your school. So why me? Why the minimum wage working college student who has six roommates? I’m pretty, but I’m not gorgeous. I’m not as well-liked. I’m pretty dislikable. Sassy. Resting bitch face. Gets fat easily. Not a bunch of friends.
I guess you see something in me. Or that’s what I hope.
You’re at a concert right now with one of your friends. Elizabeth. You never really mentioned her before so it feels weird to know you’re at a concert together. You told me she has a boyfriend and that you guys never had a thing for each other. Still, I worry.
If you can’t tell, I worry a lot.
Will we be together in a year? Will there be some great thing that breaks us apart? Will we last eight months even? I want to. I’m scared to say I want it because I’m worried it will end up hurting me more later on. I’m worried that saying I love you, saying I want you to be in my life for years down the road, I’m worried these things will end up hurting me when something happens. If we break up.
It’s hard to attach.