Lavínia
plalace
- Feb 19, 2024
- 130
When I was still in love with my ex, wanting to get closer to him, a girl, a friend, liked me. It's strange, I knew she liked me, but I only knew for sure because my ex told me... because she told him. I was angry at the time, I wanted to confront him, ask if she had spoken to him in secret, and he just let it out, but I didn't say anything. I never say anything, I never vent my frustrations.
There was a day I went out with her. We went to the mall, we walked through a children's toy section. Her autism is probably worse than mine; she was very reclusive, and hyper-focused on toys, cartoons, and old models. I walked around and listened to her explain about each different doll, Barbie models, which ones had manufacturing errors, controversies, changes, which she liked best... I didn't hate it, it was just strange; obviously, I feigned interest and started conversations because I care about people, at least in conversation. But I didn't want to be there. I knew I'd remember it every time we went out, even though I didn't want to be there, even though I couldn't refuse, and it was strange.
She was a little sad, and she confided in me about anxiety, about not knowing how to live—things I feel too. She told me how she wanted to be a ghost, without a body, just a soul, to wander around and watch people go about their lives, without needing to interfere, just watching. It struck me a bit. A big part of the reason I stayed with my ex, even though it hurt me, was because I wanted to see how he would live, how much he could change, or grow. She asked me for comfort. I don't remember holding her hand; I think it was just a hug. We walked more, she talked more, I listened more, I agreed more. In a more secluded part of the mall, we sat on the ground side by side. She cried, and I hugged her, stroking her back, like in the movies. A few seconds, a minute. My arm started to burn, aching from the awkward position. I kept caressing her, saying things I didn't agree with, trying to cheer her up. I didn't know what pattern to use on her back; I swayed with certain gestures, and my arm hurt more. The position itself—my body is larger than hers—was arched, my back hurt, my arm hurt, and the whole situation felt very strange. I tried to move away; it had been a few minutes since she'd spoken, calmed down. I removed my hand, and she asked me to continue hugging her in a standard way. Comical. My arm continued to hurt. I remember finding it funny, strange, and feeling like it was a day I would remember. I felt a little out of place, as if I wasn't really there. It was a narrative, someone who liked me, even if I didn't. A day out where I only lied. Comforting her, but in reality, she was thinking of a narrative, a romantic moment perhaps, which was stupid. I felt empty that day. I felt like I didn't like her, I didn't feel anything for her, but maybe it was a choice to feel. I could forget the feelings I had for my ex—we didn't have anything back then anyway—and pretend to like her, care for her, even truly like her. A better path; she was a good person.
Those paths I think I saw, those choices, those narratives that embellish dull or silly moments—I always remember them. I always feel like I could have done something differently. But I know it's a lie; I would never have chosen anything else, and I know I didn't choose anything back then. The longer I live, the more I remember those days. Strange days when I don't know what I was feeling.
There was a day I went out with her. We went to the mall, we walked through a children's toy section. Her autism is probably worse than mine; she was very reclusive, and hyper-focused on toys, cartoons, and old models. I walked around and listened to her explain about each different doll, Barbie models, which ones had manufacturing errors, controversies, changes, which she liked best... I didn't hate it, it was just strange; obviously, I feigned interest and started conversations because I care about people, at least in conversation. But I didn't want to be there. I knew I'd remember it every time we went out, even though I didn't want to be there, even though I couldn't refuse, and it was strange.
She was a little sad, and she confided in me about anxiety, about not knowing how to live—things I feel too. She told me how she wanted to be a ghost, without a body, just a soul, to wander around and watch people go about their lives, without needing to interfere, just watching. It struck me a bit. A big part of the reason I stayed with my ex, even though it hurt me, was because I wanted to see how he would live, how much he could change, or grow. She asked me for comfort. I don't remember holding her hand; I think it was just a hug. We walked more, she talked more, I listened more, I agreed more. In a more secluded part of the mall, we sat on the ground side by side. She cried, and I hugged her, stroking her back, like in the movies. A few seconds, a minute. My arm started to burn, aching from the awkward position. I kept caressing her, saying things I didn't agree with, trying to cheer her up. I didn't know what pattern to use on her back; I swayed with certain gestures, and my arm hurt more. The position itself—my body is larger than hers—was arched, my back hurt, my arm hurt, and the whole situation felt very strange. I tried to move away; it had been a few minutes since she'd spoken, calmed down. I removed my hand, and she asked me to continue hugging her in a standard way. Comical. My arm continued to hurt. I remember finding it funny, strange, and feeling like it was a day I would remember. I felt a little out of place, as if I wasn't really there. It was a narrative, someone who liked me, even if I didn't. A day out where I only lied. Comforting her, but in reality, she was thinking of a narrative, a romantic moment perhaps, which was stupid. I felt empty that day. I felt like I didn't like her, I didn't feel anything for her, but maybe it was a choice to feel. I could forget the feelings I had for my ex—we didn't have anything back then anyway—and pretend to like her, care for her, even truly like her. A better path; she was a good person.
Those paths I think I saw, those choices, those narratives that embellish dull or silly moments—I always remember them. I always feel like I could have done something differently. But I know it's a lie; I would never have chosen anything else, and I know I didn't choose anything back then. The longer I live, the more I remember those days. Strange days when I don't know what I was feeling.
