So not to be totally cliche, but I met a boy.
This is not my eleven year old diary that is covered in purple forget-me-not flowers and has an easily pickable pink padlock, as the guardian of it’s secrets. Daisy chain day dreaming and naiveté have long forgotten to pay me a visit. I understand that the timing is bad. I understand that I’m living the story that everyone before me has already lived.
I also really just don’t care.
Logically, I know it’s silly to paint a pretty picture in my head, about a fantasy future, only my heart is stupid enough to entertain. I know it will bring both myself, and him, pain. At eighteen, statistically, I know I haven’t found ‘the one’. Or even the happiest compromise, if ‘the one’ doesn’t even exist. I know that at eighteen, we are children in comparison to our future selves. Future selves who will look back on who we are now and laugh at how we lusted after the LSD trip that is universal adolescence.
I also know that this isn’t love.
At least I don’t think it is, but nobody has actually ever properly sat down and explained to me what love is, so who am I to hold that opinion. Maybe a better way to put it is that, I know this isn’t the love I will settle down with. Because it never is.
The love we always settle down with is a quiet and steady love. One that tucks us up into bed each night, optimistically with the same person. A love that wakes us up to the same old routine. The same story ever day. A love that makes settling bearable and allows you to retain some sliver of sanity in a settled world.
This love feels like a quiet rebellion.
I don’t care that he’s probably not the person I will end up dying next to. He probably won’t be my last love or my last kiss. Both of which I think are entirely more important than first anything’s. I don’t care that the most likely plot for this story to follow is one that ends in a broken heart and another slightly sad, already told, story to tell.
I don’t care because I’m tired of being lonely while I wait for the world to beat me into submission, into settling. I don’t care about the statistics or any number of the probabilities because I’m finally having fun.
I always promised myself, that if I was ever going to fall in love after that first time, I would commit to it fully. I would fling myself off the cliff like a crazy person and deal with the results of my inevitable crash later. I think a broken heart is always worth it, because a broken heart means you loved somebody the way the universe designed you to.
Sometimes I can’t look him in the eyes because I don’t know what to do with the way he looks back into mine.
I’m not stupid, but as it turns out neither is he. Most of the time I’m in control of the situation, but more and more as it seems, he tips the board on it’s head, usually through a move of unpredictable reliability. Maybe I’m just ‘damaged’ and ‘cynical’, I use quotes because I don’t believe these statements to be true in the slightest, but I don’t know what to do when people actually do live up to my expectations. When they turn up on time, don’t sleep though a morning date and in general actually do the things they say they are going to do.
He doesn’t give me butterflies. I don’t feel nausea when I see him and my stomach doesn’t drop.
Instead, I spend the day collecting stories to recount to him in person. Preferably over sickly sweet, one dollar hot chocolates, at some unlit remote spot on the outskirts of town. I feel calm when I smell his scent on the sweaters he’s cleverly incorporated into my wardrobe and I feel free when we drive fast in his car.
I don’t really know what this is, or what to do with these feelings other than write them down, but I think he will be an interesting story to tell one day because the scent on his sweater, smells like an adventure.