• walk the line.

    by  • August 7, 2013 • * Safe for Work *, Thinking of you • 0 Comments

    this will either be a very long, well written letter, or a rambling, jumbled mess. probably the latter, but it’s really too soon to say.

    let’s start here, with a secret i’ve hidden from the majority of people at my school, for fear of the whispers and looks i’d receive. i have been asked out only once in my life, as a joke, and the guy in question didn’t even bother to get it right. i’ve never danced with anyone, been on a date, been kissed, been loved. girls and boys far more cruel than i, with far more enemies than friends, have had more luck than i have in my seventeen years, two months, and six days of being alive. (it could be worse; i’m still in high school). but none of my friends can understand how this feels: three of the four best are younger than i am, all have been in relationships, and thus not a single one has spent such a long period of time alone, and never will.

    this wouldn’t be an issue if it weren’t for you. you, with your bright green eyes and teasing manner and awkward, ridiculous tendencies. it would be easier to cope, to not care, if i weren’t too busy caring about you. not that you care, as far as i can tell: your head is in the clouds, perhaps on another girl, and even if the girl is me, you certainly aren’t doing anything about it, are you?

    everyone must have a line somewhere, a breaking point of a line that they must cross before they give up. where is that line, the line that will stop me from continuing to wish on stars and candles that you would sto being oblivious or afraid or whatever it is that keeps us apart? at what point will i snap, and lose all affection for the rhythm of your laugh and the way you always try to cheer me up?

    if the line exists, let me cross it, running. full sprint, like i’m racing against the clock, racing to save myself from wasting another ten precious months of my life on you.

    (it will be a year in october).

    bring the line. bring the horizon. let me break that barrier so i can forget, so i can be careless and free, unoccupied, unburdened.

    you’ve been wonderful, even though you’ve never been mine. now help me let you go.

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