I look over at him, slouching as if draped over the side of a chair like a roll of fabric. With the headphones plugged in, nothing will matter, as long as the legs tap rhythmically, as long as the throat silently hums and the fingers play frenetic chords, riffs,
Whatever.

And I think to myself, that I am so very stupid.

Did I say that I loathe you, that we should leave all this behind? So much more. In flashes of white hot anger I have hurled words that, in retrospect, have sounded so childish that I both laugh and cringe at myself.

I’ve always longed for a lover who would double up as my best friend when I needed one, and a sibling for when I needed someone to look out for me. To grow up as a single child may have its perks of a large inheritance and whatnot, but it makes for a lonely childhood. Especially lonely, in fact, when you were a fat lonely kid with tall, skinny neighbours with far too many friends. While all the others were away hopping on bouncy castles that I wasn’t allowed because of my girth, I began to read.

Voraciously.

And as I read I made up worlds – fanciful portals that led to complicated lands.

And then, like God, I created my Adam.

He was so tall and so wonderful, with a crinkly smile and crooked teeth. He would have strong arms that I could melt in, a rich wonderful voice. He would ask me about my favourite things, naturally some things we would love alike, some we would have a mutual distaste for, and the things we did not agree upon we would debate hotly but reconcile in the end, for that is what lovers do.
It’s just what all young lovers do.

I reach up to your nose, and I’m as tall as you if I stand on tiptoe.
You cannot sing, not even if you tried.
I could lift you up if I wanted to. I think.
The way your jeans threaten to fall off while mine cling on like second skin-in a minute I’m reminded of my fat kid past and it scares me and saddens me to see your friends with those skinny bombshells with matching-clothes-shoes-handbags-accessories. They never have bad hair days. Days of crippling self doubt and days where calories must be counted but they aren’t for fear you have eaten too much – so much that you will explode and never be heard of. They have longer legs and thinner arms and t-shirts that flatter their every curve and hide their every flaw. Not that they have any of course.

I am rendered inadequate in every measure and I wonder why you would even like me. Me, with the hair that flies off in different cardinal directions on any given day of the week. Myopic me, I’m prone to spells of superciliousness and bouts of anger. I bite my nails and I cannot stand defeat.

And I am short. Not lissome and wispy like I should be. I once spent an entire month listening only to Flo Rida’s Right Round. I cannot dance and if I do I look like a spastic monkey, no offence to spastic monkeys.

And I am jealous, so very jealous, that every time you treat another girl the way you treat me, in spite of myself I am stabbed with a pinprick that is sharp and painful but mostly shameful.

But like a favourite song you make me forget and you make me discover.

With every word I scream I know I push you away. I know that one day you may no longer return.

But overlaying everything is fear. That no one will ever understand me the way you do. I am afraid that one day someone smarter and prettier and less blustery will take you away and make you work less and appreciate you more.

Appreciate you I do, in my mind more than I say it loud for reasons unknown. All my swagger and all my bravado, all the things that I say about how I would be better off without you – they would collapse if you leave. Even though you should be loved more.

I know how stupid I sound. What anyone would say if they saw this. That if I know all of this, then why don’t I?

Because, you see, I am so very stupid.

So stupid that I would do anything to rebuild the things I break down over and over again, in the hope that one day, I’ll learn to not demolish things that aren’t meant to be broken.

And everyday I promise you that this will be the last time I hurt you; everyday I meticulously prove myself to be a liar, again and again and again.

Like The Boy Who Cried Wolf, I shall become The Girl Who Cried Love, and karma will smile silently.

As much as I am afraid that no one else will ever understand me, I am afraid that you don’t understand me.

Just as I am terrified that I don’t know you at all.

You want a mature relationship. With a friend who turned out to be more. I don’t know where you got your calm from, I missed the lessons I should have learnt about patience. I am a hypocrite so worried about losing my identity with you that I don’t see how I’m forcing you into a mould.

And for every one of these things I am sorry. You are your own person just as I am mine. You deserve someone who appreciates you for all that you do. For all that you are. Someone that probably isn’t me.

But should you ever feel like you want to settle, I’ll still be here. Stupid, stupid me.