Once upon a time, I met a boy named Steve*. He liked me because I read classics, could dance to any kind of music, and used sarcasm as a flirtation tactic. I liked him because he used big words, reminded me of Ron Weasley, and had a good sense of fashion. But he kissed like a hungry trout and I just had to put my foot down. After not letting him kiss me for two weeks (after our first kiss), it had to stop. He got persistent in giving his heart to me, but I had to let it fall to the ground and shatter because if I put my hands out to catch it, I would feel obligated to take care of him. His pain would become my pain, his joy my joy, and I wasn't ready to take care of someone else. I couldn't even manage my own pain at the time, so I couldn't be what he wanted.
We stopped talking when I left for camp my first summer. He sent me a letter with a picture of his face on it, Facebook messages and several texts, but I didn't want him. So I never wrote back. He cared so much about me and he was so open about it. There was no mystery in how he felt, and it drove me away. His impressive words weren't enough to keep me interested, so I had to let him go. He told me he loved me the next fall when I got back from school. But I didn't believe him.
We hung out a lot last winter and kissed again. That time it wasn't so bad, but I still knew how things would end. Again. His heart was the only one at risk, and mine was tucked away safely in a place his words and kisses would never reach. I had grown reserved, irredeemable and there was no real love in my heart or head for him. But I knew he loved me, and I couldn't change it.
He let me borrow a book called "Ten Little Indians". I never made time to read it and I felt guilty because it was his favorite but I didn't care. So we stopped hanging out and talking because he'd read and returned "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead" when I let him borrow it. Months after we stopped hanging out, he text me and asked if I had his book and I never answered because I was thinking "I'll read it one of these days, and we'll have something to talk about other than his feelings or what I did wrong." But I still haven't read it, and I don't know that I ever will. But I might, if given a different reason to pick it up.
He was always really fickle about having a Facebook. He would cancel his account for a few months, then activate it again. He was always back and forth on being a part of the social media realm. He was torn between fitting in and wanting to mourn his individualism. So when he was no longer in my list of friends, I didn't take it personally. I figured he was just going through a bout of anti-conformity.
But today I was on Facebook and saw him in my column for suggested friends, only he'd changed his Facebook name to something other than his real name. My guess is he's going through an identity crisis, and needed to go by a different name for a while. It's not the first time it's happened. I went to his profile and saw two quotes. The first one I immediately knew was about the book I never gave back. It reads:
"You’re always giving, my therapist said. You have to learn how to take. Whenever you meet a woman, the first thing you do is lend her your books. You think she’ll have to see you again in order to return them. But what happens is, she doesn't have the time to read them, & she’s afraid if she sees you again you’ll expect her to talk about them, & will want to lend her even more. So she cancels the date. You end up losing a lot of books. You should borrow hers."
-Hal Sirowitz
The second quote reads:
"Let me tell you this; if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it's not because they enjoy solitude. It's because they tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them."
I couldn't have said it better myself, Steve. At least we're on the same page about some things still.
*Named changed for the protection of individual.
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