To Be Loved
Chapter 1
Sometimes I wonder what it is you see in her. You look at her like a blind man seeing the heavens for the first time, as if she is some kind of gift from God. I can kind of see it, I guess. I mean, she is beautiful. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say gorgeous. She is tall, curvy, and ultra-feminine. The epitome of every man’s dream. Everything I’m not. And this is what hurts me the most. That you are so drawn to something that so different from me. It is the period tacked onto the heart-wrenching sentence that you will never love me. Not in the way that I wish you to, at least.
Where she is tall and bronzed, I am petite and ghostly white. Her skin seems to radiate in the sun, as if her entire body is covered in iridescent diamonds. My pasty complexion seems dull in comparison. Not to mention, my head barely brushes your shoulder. Despite my complaints about my (lack of) height, you always used to say that it was cute, and best of all that it made it easier for you to pick me up, as you so loved to do. Compliments like these seem few and far between nowadays. It comes as no surprise to me, though. Spending so much time basking in the beauty of a goddess like Ellie would make everything else seem unimpressive and unworthy of complimenting.
Her hair is long and curled, shining a radiant auburn color, and my hair is short and dark, cropped in an easily maintained pixie cut. Whenever we all go out together, you and Ellie, and me and whatever pity-date you’ve set up for me, I watch enviously as you run your hands through it gently, pulling playfully on the ends and making her giggle softly at you. When it comes to me, however, you just ruffle my hair, sticking your tongue out at me. The intent of the two actions is painstakingly different, and it kills me.
Everything about Ellie oozes effortless glamour. I know, however, that that’s not the case. Her glamour is anything but effortless. She does everything in her power to look good, but spins it to look as if she doesn’t. But you don’t know that, Oli. You’re so naïve when it comes to things like that. So trusting and devoted. Because you mean everything you say, you think that everyone else does, too. She doesn’t deserve you. But in a way, you two are perfect for each other. Two mirror images of beauty and grace.
And then there’s me. I know she doesn’t like that you’re friends with me. I don’t see why. It’s not as if I’m any kind of threat to her. There’s no need for her to be so protective. You are so devoted to her that you wouldn’t ever dream of thinking of someone else in that way. Either way, she doesn’t like me, and you know it. Whenever we go out, you hear her disapproving “ticks” and “tsks” as much as I do. But I ignore them and act as if I don’t hear them. I do it for you. I know it would kill you if you knew that I don’t like her. So I put on my poker face and occasionally send her quick, fake smiles across the table, to appease your intrinsic nature to hold everything together. It’s funny that you would turn out to be so obsessed with keeping things together when you can’t even keep yourself from falling apart. But that’s my job I guess. And I accept it with open and willing arms. Because it allows me to be closer to you. And I’ll take that opportunity any day, Oli.
I’ve always been there for you, really. We’ve been friends for as long as I care to remember. All the way back to when we first met in ninth grade. High school provided some of the worst years of my life, but they’re still my favorite years because back then it was just you and me. Us against everyone. That’s how I like it to be, Oli. We used to celebrate our “anniversary”, the day we first met. But since you have her, you don’t need me as much, do you? Only the nights when she’s gone.
I remember the first time you came over, after the first of many times that she broke up with you. You were sitting on my doorstep, your gorgeous hazel eyes bloodshot and water. I let you in without question. You broke down into my arms and you just sat there, curled into me, for the whole night, your body racking with the occasional broken sob. At one point, I think you asked me to sing to you, and I murmured songs into your ear, trying anything, everything to comfort you. I couldn’t stand to see you so broken. I still can’t, Oli. That’s why I keep letting you back in, hopeless night after hopeless night. I’ll do anything for you. In the morning just after you’d fallen asleep, your phone rang while I was making you waffles. You jolted awake and searched frantically for your phone. I remember how your face lit up when you saw her name on the caller I.D. Ever since then, I wonder if your face lights up like that when you see my name on that flashing screen. When you answered, your voice was frenzied and desperate, and I could hear the delicate mewing of her voice on the other end of the line. You listened desperately to everything she said, letting out a few one syllable words in response, already getting up and dressed while you were still on the phone. When she was done, you hung up, after saying a quick, meaningful “I love you” to her. You say those words to her with such reverence, Oli. As if you’re saying a prayer or speaking a secret vow. It breaks my heart. I remember you running into the kitchen with a smile on your face, lighting up the whole room with your relief and joy.
“She’s taking me back, Audrey. She didn’t mean any of it last night. Oh my god, she’s taking me back.” You spoke the words quickly, so fast they were barely discernable. You tugged your jacket on, kissed my cheek, and sprinted out the door of my apartment, not looking back once. That’s when it started. This vicious circle of self-inflicted pain.
Where she is tall and bronzed, I am petite and ghostly white. Her skin seems to radiate in the sun, as if her entire body is covered in iridescent diamonds. My pasty complexion seems dull in comparison. Not to mention, my head barely brushes your shoulder. Despite my complaints about my (lack of) height, you always used to say that it was cute, and best of all that it made it easier for you to pick me up, as you so loved to do. Compliments like these seem few and far between nowadays. It comes as no surprise to me, though. Spending so much time basking in the beauty of a goddess like Ellie would make everything else seem unimpressive and unworthy of complimenting.
Her hair is long and curled, shining a radiant auburn color, and my hair is short and dark, cropped in an easily maintained pixie cut. Whenever we all go out together, you and Ellie, and me and whatever pity-date you’ve set up for me, I watch enviously as you run your hands through it gently, pulling playfully on the ends and making her giggle softly at you. When it comes to me, however, you just ruffle my hair, sticking your tongue out at me. The intent of the two actions is painstakingly different, and it kills me.
Everything about Ellie oozes effortless glamour. I know, however, that that’s not the case. Her glamour is anything but effortless. She does everything in her power to look good, but spins it to look as if she doesn’t. But you don’t know that, Oli. You’re so naïve when it comes to things like that. So trusting and devoted. Because you mean everything you say, you think that everyone else does, too. She doesn’t deserve you. But in a way, you two are perfect for each other. Two mirror images of beauty and grace.
And then there’s me. I know she doesn’t like that you’re friends with me. I don’t see why. It’s not as if I’m any kind of threat to her. There’s no need for her to be so protective. You are so devoted to her that you wouldn’t ever dream of thinking of someone else in that way. Either way, she doesn’t like me, and you know it. Whenever we go out, you hear her disapproving “ticks” and “tsks” as much as I do. But I ignore them and act as if I don’t hear them. I do it for you. I know it would kill you if you knew that I don’t like her. So I put on my poker face and occasionally send her quick, fake smiles across the table, to appease your intrinsic nature to hold everything together. It’s funny that you would turn out to be so obsessed with keeping things together when you can’t even keep yourself from falling apart. But that’s my job I guess. And I accept it with open and willing arms. Because it allows me to be closer to you. And I’ll take that opportunity any day, Oli.
I’ve always been there for you, really. We’ve been friends for as long as I care to remember. All the way back to when we first met in ninth grade. High school provided some of the worst years of my life, but they’re still my favorite years because back then it was just you and me. Us against everyone. That’s how I like it to be, Oli. We used to celebrate our “anniversary”, the day we first met. But since you have her, you don’t need me as much, do you? Only the nights when she’s gone.
I remember the first time you came over, after the first of many times that she broke up with you. You were sitting on my doorstep, your gorgeous hazel eyes bloodshot and water. I let you in without question. You broke down into my arms and you just sat there, curled into me, for the whole night, your body racking with the occasional broken sob. At one point, I think you asked me to sing to you, and I murmured songs into your ear, trying anything, everything to comfort you. I couldn’t stand to see you so broken. I still can’t, Oli. That’s why I keep letting you back in, hopeless night after hopeless night. I’ll do anything for you. In the morning just after you’d fallen asleep, your phone rang while I was making you waffles. You jolted awake and searched frantically for your phone. I remember how your face lit up when you saw her name on the caller I.D. Ever since then, I wonder if your face lights up like that when you see my name on that flashing screen. When you answered, your voice was frenzied and desperate, and I could hear the delicate mewing of her voice on the other end of the line. You listened desperately to everything she said, letting out a few one syllable words in response, already getting up and dressed while you were still on the phone. When she was done, you hung up, after saying a quick, meaningful “I love you” to her. You say those words to her with such reverence, Oli. As if you’re saying a prayer or speaking a secret vow. It breaks my heart. I remember you running into the kitchen with a smile on your face, lighting up the whole room with your relief and joy.
“She’s taking me back, Audrey. She didn’t mean any of it last night. Oh my god, she’s taking me back.” You spoke the words quickly, so fast they were barely discernable. You tugged your jacket on, kissed my cheek, and sprinted out the door of my apartment, not looking back once. That’s when it started. This vicious circle of self-inflicted pain.