After vowing to hide it, ignore it, push it away for as long as I could, I found myself fancying the idea of another half to my heart yet again.
How many times do I need to teach myself? I a(more)sk, expecting no solid answer. How many times do I fall in love and then fly away from it?
There's no telling how serious it is, nor how much more serious it will be-all I can see is that it's here, lingering in the back of my mind, waving at me from the corners of my daydreams and imagination. I don't want to wave back. I simply nod instead.
Perhaps it's nothing, I tell myself-it's always been just 'nothing', I'm just overreacting-but then what is something? When will something come of my infatuations? I don't want to find out, I think to myself, not until I'm old enough to wake up in a house by myself and alone, though not terribly lonely.
It's the anxiety of love, the fear of peeling off a layer of my heart and holding it out like a frail flower petal, only to look at it myself and realize it's hideous and I need to get rid of it. That's how it's always been, and maybe how it will always be.
I'm too young to find out, I suppose.
Even so, it's frustrating.
I don't have the answers other people my age do-I don't have the answers people years younger than me do, and I feel a little childish for it, but not necessarily jealous of them. Stay in love, I think. Better you than me. I could only attempt what so many people have done successfully time and time again. Failure will only give me more anxiety, I guess.(less)