You Like A Boy

You like a boy. You met him by chance in November, and he makes you nervous. You like a boy, you may even love him, but you’re too young and too inexperienced to say for sure. You notice the way the gray strands in his hair catch the light and the way he taps his face with stretched hands when he gets excited. You like a boy, and the way he makes you feel. You no longer crack your fingers when you have too much energy, you fidget with his hand instead. He even grabs it when you’re not paying attention. You like a boy, and how he knows you. When you’re too anxious, he’ll lay his head on your stomach and let you play with his hair. The strands are soft as you lay with your head on his knee, his back bent so his nose touches yours, and your hand combing the curtain of gray and brown away from his face. You like a boy, and you think he likes you too. He pulls you closer when you cuddle and always knows when you’re nauseous. You like a boy, and how he looks at you. He looks at you earnestly when he calls you attractive and paid close attention to you while you were finishing getting ready after an impromptu sleepover. You like a boy, but you’re scared, too. You’ve always had trouble understanding how other people view you. You didn’t realize he liked you as a person until he invited you to his birthday party. You like a boy, but you’re not sure if he likes you.

You like a boy, but it’s April now, so you gather your courage. You enlist your friend to help you practice; you helped her confess a month ago, so she has to agree. Your first draft is a rambling mess of words and a fear of being misunderstood. As a full 2 minutes tick by without a pause for him to respond, your friend sighs and rolls her eyes. She tells you to start with the order of importance: what do you need him to know, what do you want him to know, and what could go either way. You sit and close your eyes to center yourself. You feel the sun-warmed bench behind and beneath you, taste the ranch you dipped your fries in, and smell peony blossoms, your friend’s signature spring fragrance. She wants this to go well for you, but is concerned about the amount of time and energy you’ve spent worrying about this. You try thrice more to make your points clear and your words concise. Each attempt makes your friend’s eyes gloss over and mind wander, but you appreciate her presence nonetheless. With a final recitation of your major points, you ask him to meet and you leave. Your friend wraps you in a hug, one that you must bend at the waist to meet, and get her long hair in your mouth due to the wind. It comforts you as you part for what seems like a pivotal moment in your life. 

You like a boy, and you’re about to tell him. You sneak in behind someone entering the building so he won’t have to let you in, prolonging your anxiousness and prep time. You knock before entering his room out of politeness, though he’s aware you made it inside and how long it takes to get to his room. His room smells of the vanilla plug-ins he loves. You turn left to face him on his bed, still under the covers and sleep-rumpled, meaning he woke up just to see you. You look at him unsure of how to start, nausea suddenly burning your throat closed. His blue eyes pierce through you and you have to look away. You hear rustling and a soft thud, but are unable to look up. A gentle hand grazes from your neck to your shoulder and down your arm to your hand, where a cold water bottle breaks open the fist, the fist you weren’t even aware you made. The air conditioning deafens you, drowning out the crinkling of the bottle and the telltale creaks of that old wooden bed. You finally lift your head and he’s looking at you with the least emotion you’ve ever seen on his face, mouth in a straight line and eyes startlingly blank. He knows, why else would he be looking at you like that? His stare neutralizes the bile and frees your throat, words erupting without consent. You finally stop as his expression shifts to surprise. He quickly reigns it into mildly concerned. You know what’s coming, and explain how you just want to be friends. It isn’t really what you’d like and you know it, but you’d rather have him as a friend than a memory. He says he feels nothing for you that way, and he’s relieved you want to be friends. He jokes about how the friend group should stay as it is. He expresses his concern for you, noting the difficulties of unrequited love. You’ve had practice at this part, letting feelings fade on their own terms and being happy with what you can have, so you aren’t worried. You leave disappointed, a little embarrassed, but feeling lighter than when you arrived. 

You like a boy, he doesn’t like you, and you’re okay with that. You spend time together but you stay aware of how affectionate you two are. Your knuckles have begun to ache again, but it helps distract from other aches you’d rather ignore. Weeks pass and you receive a message from another friend, one who commiserated with you about unrequited crushes within your shared friend group. Your friend wants to talk about something important and it involves the boy. You know how gentle he is, so you immediately know what the talk will be about. Your heart breaks a bit, but you slip out of pajamas and out the door. Today is a walking day, you’ll need the music and time to get your emotions out before seeing them. Normally, they flounce into their seats bursting with tales of their days or random questions. Now, they sit across from you shifting in their seats. You lean forward and attempt to break their concentration on the tabletop to no avail. You lean back again in your seat. You aren’t going to break the silence like you usually do. This is up to them to tell you. 

You like a boy, and now he likes someone else. He likes your mutual friend, the one who you messaged a week ago about still having slight twinges of feelings when the boy did certain things. The two of them are hunched over, a far cry from their normal sprawl across anything in reach. She breaks the silence. They don’t look at you as they tell you about how they’re together now. In the silence that follows, you realize you have a choice: act like they expected and have an emotional talk that you’re frankly not in the mood for, or not react and let them come to their own conclusion about your true feelings. You choose the latter. It’s petty, but you’re a young girl feeling betrayed. You express how you expected it and wish them well in the future before noting you’re in the middle of an assignment and need to leave. You leave the opposite of the way you came, but they don’t need to know that. You can’t go home yet, home means facing emotions. So you walk. You bend your knees and extend them in appropriate intervals, rotating your ankles and putting your weight from one leg to the other. You walk until you haven’t heard a single voice for minutes. You walk until you reach your tree, a place that’s isolated and protected yet still has birds and a breeze. You sit and mourn what you could’ve had, who you could’ve been, and what you’ll have to give up now. You don’t cry though, that’s for darkness, candle smoke, and faux fur blankets. Now is cold wind, dry leaves, and emptiness as you search for something to fill your heart where fondness used to be. 

You liked a boy, but you’re not sure how you feel now. You’ve taken a step back from the group to try and find fondness for yourself. You play games together, but you’ve refused to spend the night or be alone with them. They’ve tried but you’re still too hurt to see them the way you used to. You’ve taken up painting again. Your cat doesn’t appreciate you using her napping desk as an easel, but you offer your shoulders as an alternative while you work. You join your roommate at the gym and are rekindling old friendships. Your skills are progressing little by little as you use the energy you originally used to love someone else to love yourself.

Roan Achillion is a college student who has had a long-term interest in writing. Their academic focus is on archaeology and forensics so they use writing as a haven for their emotion and sentimentality, hence their use of a pseudonym. They live off campus with their best friend whom they share many an adventure with.