Have you ever met someone who amazes you? Like, they’re so amazing you kinda can’t believe they exist, or that they’re talking to you?
I have met such a man. He is spectacular. Absolutely spectacular. Perhaps one of, if not the most, attractive men I’ve ever met. He has this calm genuine gentleness that catches me off-guard. I trip over it during our conversations and settle in next to it when I can.
When we’re in a room full to capacity I catch him looking at me. Watching me in a way that is so not creepy. It’s flattering and endearing and I’m probably making too much of it. I usually make too much of things.
I look back at situations that include us both and hyperbolize their memory. When we talk he leans in and makes eye contact that makes me blush and cover my mouth in fear. Afraid I have some ghastly piece of lunch stuck between my teeth and I have to hide it. My nose runs as it does all the time except I’m far too familiar with its dripping in his presence. I’m also too familiar with how comfortable I am around him. I am afraid of that comfort. I am afraid of the consistencies he’s known and of which I am unfamiliar. I like what I know about him and want to know more. I’m afraid of other things because of my insecurities and nothing that he has done. I am afraid of my insecurities. I’m afraid of the way he looks at me. I’m afraid of how easily we talk. I’m also afraid of how I haven’t poured my past into his cup. That’s what I usually do when I meet someone new. I over share to undercompensate. My story is sad and, at times, overwhelming. I’ve always thought that if I tell someone all at once while laughing they won’t see my tear ducts swell and my spirit shrink in remembrance.
I want to fall for who he is — not what he stands for…. I want to continue to be myself and see if he can do the same. Is it possible for two people to meet, be themselves, and get along? I’ve had that with my female friends but never with men. I am particularly intrigued by this instance because of who I am right now. Just the other day I found myself thinking, “I am ready to give love.” My first love broke me into every piece. My last love was kind, but not right. Two years after my first I found myself still hurting from the damage and trying to exist inside a relationship. We spent more time explaining our damage than we did healing from it.
This next love — whomever they may be — is important because of where I am. I know so much more about myself now that I did then.
I’m afraid of the me that pops up right now. The part of me that giggles in the absence of my crush and turns charismatic in their presence. I’m afraid of what I want to be and what will become. I’m always afraid of wanting things especially too badly. It’s as if that want crushes my destiny and causes The Makers to laugh. The more I want the more it signals those in charge of me to give me Not That.
I’m also afraid of typing this because it makes it more real. These words are a beacon sending a flare from Pandora’s box. My demons look sharp to the sky and fly back to their Nazareth. I’ve held this feeling for months and it’s now, at 1:44am the morning of a snow day that I could no longer keep them to myself.
I am grateful to the Internet; it is a cloak of sorts. I’m permitted space to write and hide and others to read and do the same. I know nothing of their identity only that we’ve shared something. I thank you patient reader for listening to my heart. It makes the telling of my desires a little easier each time.