Just Not Interested.
Only.
You looked so eager and anxious as you handed me that white envelope, which would haunt me for the rest of the school year. You did it so casually, just giving it to me in the middle of history class like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
“Here’s an invitation to my birthday party.”
I think I said thank you, more out of automatic politeness than actual gratitude. I thought you were strange, I barely knew you, and a bad experience with a boy from my freshman year made me even more anxious at the idea that you might like me. You had been talking to me more and more during the past few weeks, usually compliments regarding my performance in class and suggesting that I sign up for the AP level course next year. I repeatedly denied my abilities to try to get you off my back, but you persisted. It was kind of embarrassing, watching you flirt clumsily and shamelessly in front of the entire class.
It was a strange invitation for a teenage boy: blue, from a party store, one that you would use for a child’s birthday party. I put of RSVP-ing as long as I could. I avoided you, avoided talking to you. It was hard, as your lunch table was right next to mine. I hid behind my friends, never telling them what had happened in fear of staring rumors and embarrassing myself even more. I took the invitation home and cut it up, destroyed it, mangled it beyond recognition. I scattered the teeny tiny slivers of my cowardice into every trashcan in the house, so no one would be able to piece together the evidence. I could not be liked by a boy. I had never been liked by a boy. It just wasn’t something that was normal for me, and I had no idea how to react.
One day I wasn’t quick enough leaving the cafeteria. My friend’s walked ahead of me, and you caught up to me and asked if I would be able to come to your party. I responded that I was very sorry, but wouldn’t be able to make it. Your face fell as you struggled to remain casual, nonchalant, unconcerned. But the awkwardness grew between us until I escaped through a gap in the crush of students leaving for class.
I never have known what to say to you since that moment. When I see you in the halls, I look down. When you’re walking near me I duck in between the lockers. I hide, I run, I blend, I isolate myself. You noticed me, but I can’t accept it. I can’t just throw myself at you just because you expressed a little interest. That’s not the way I am. I’m sorry. I should have said more, shouldn’t have led you on for as long as I did but please, please, let me be. I am ashamed. I am cowardly. But I am not interested in you.
“Here’s an invitation to my birthday party.”
I think I said thank you, more out of automatic politeness than actual gratitude. I thought you were strange, I barely knew you, and a bad experience with a boy from my freshman year made me even more anxious at the idea that you might like me. You had been talking to me more and more during the past few weeks, usually compliments regarding my performance in class and suggesting that I sign up for the AP level course next year. I repeatedly denied my abilities to try to get you off my back, but you persisted. It was kind of embarrassing, watching you flirt clumsily and shamelessly in front of the entire class.
It was a strange invitation for a teenage boy: blue, from a party store, one that you would use for a child’s birthday party. I put of RSVP-ing as long as I could. I avoided you, avoided talking to you. It was hard, as your lunch table was right next to mine. I hid behind my friends, never telling them what had happened in fear of staring rumors and embarrassing myself even more. I took the invitation home and cut it up, destroyed it, mangled it beyond recognition. I scattered the teeny tiny slivers of my cowardice into every trashcan in the house, so no one would be able to piece together the evidence. I could not be liked by a boy. I had never been liked by a boy. It just wasn’t something that was normal for me, and I had no idea how to react.
One day I wasn’t quick enough leaving the cafeteria. My friend’s walked ahead of me, and you caught up to me and asked if I would be able to come to your party. I responded that I was very sorry, but wouldn’t be able to make it. Your face fell as you struggled to remain casual, nonchalant, unconcerned. But the awkwardness grew between us until I escaped through a gap in the crush of students leaving for class.
I never have known what to say to you since that moment. When I see you in the halls, I look down. When you’re walking near me I duck in between the lockers. I hide, I run, I blend, I isolate myself. You noticed me, but I can’t accept it. I can’t just throw myself at you just because you expressed a little interest. That’s not the way I am. I’m sorry. I should have said more, shouldn’t have led you on for as long as I did but please, please, let me be. I am ashamed. I am cowardly. But I am not interested in you.