I want to tell him.
That’s love right? He’s the first person I want to tell. I
want to burst into his room, my face smiling, trying to hide the giggle I feel
blossoming just beneath the surface. I want him to look up and see me and watch
the slow smile spread across his face. I want him to ask me what’s wrong and I want
to laugh and tell him the news, talking so fast I trip over my words.
That’s love right? It’s
the butterflies in my stomach and just wanting to be next to him. I don’t care
what we do, and maybe I should, but I would be content to sit in a Wal-Mart
parking lot with that boy. I would go anywhere with him. And that scares me.
But maybe that’s
love. I can feel these nervous giggles and I want him to tell me to relax, that
everything will be ok, that I just need to breathe. I want him to wrap me up in
his dusty gray sweater like he did before and let the warmth radiate around me
until I’m calm again.
That’s love, right? I
want him to be here, to laugh at me while I bite my tongue and twirl my hair
and dance around my bedroom. I want him
to indulge me in all my girlish fantasies and to sit next to me, not making any
effort to hold my hand but just sitting close enough that our elbows touch and
our knees knock together when he’s laughing.
That’s love, right?
Because before I knew it, before I knew anything, I chose him. And then I got
overwhelmed and ran away and got scared and left and I shouldn’t have. When I
say I’m sorry that’s what it means, it means I shouldn’t have walked away. And
I’m only now remembering that choice. I would choose him. If you asked me to,
or even if you didn’t, I would choose him.
I want to be there,
curled up in his chair, listening to his music as he surfs the Internet. I can
imagine being happy, imagine what it would be like to breathe it all in and
have him surrounding me and just watch him. Somehow I don’t think I would need
to say a word then.
But I do feel the
need to say something now. He’s the one I want to tell now. I close my eyes and
imagine the sounds of his house. I pretend to know if his parents are still up,
if he’s wearing that dusty grey sweat shirt, and if he is if it still smells like
me. I imagine the music he’s listening to, and wonder what his favorite song is
and which ones he skips past. I like to think he thinks about me. Maybe it’s
just in passing, as he sees my name on his Facebook news feed. Or maybe it’s
there all the time, like butterflies in his stomach.
I think that’s love.
The fact that I’m wondering these things, the fact that he’s the one person I
want to tell, the fact that I would follow him anywhere, I think they mean I
love him. I think I love him. And I’m still trying to decide if I should be
scared or not.
"Because when something happens, he’s the person I want to tell. The most basic indicator of love"