So you wanna talk about love? You wanna talk about heartache? Let's talk about ivy league freshmen Luke Henson and his unyielding desire to be liked, loved, remembered and prized. Then after that, let's talk about Kennedy Vo, resident alpha-girl and...
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KENNEDY VO January 4, 2013
— diary entry —
One of the many (strenuous) tactics I've been employing to get over Calum is reminding myself that he uses god-awful vocabulary, such as vag. Repulsive, right? Here's another one: titty (note: singular) and also tits and titties and really any conjugation of the word tit.
I found out he's seeing someone. Worse: I found out who it is, and now all I do is think about them dating and fucking and how he probably loves her tits. I could vomit.
Not like I'm out here actively choosing to think about that though. More like I'll be grabbing lunch in the dining hall, and then I'll pass a banana, and for some stupid reason, my brain goes, "Oh he probably enjoys bananas. With her." The fuck is wrong with me?
Nothing. The kind and understanding version of me says that nothing is wrong with me and that this is a completely normal symptom of heartbreak and grief that will eventually fade, the same way that my feelings for him will. But then the meaner, more abrasive, tough-love version of me says that I need to stop attaching every single part of my day to him (but I'm not doing this willingly!). It says, stop hanging out with him. Stop responding to texts. Stop holding onto hope that things will ever change because if they would, then they would've by now.
But still. When he suggests a library day, I go. And when he asks if something's wrong, I lie. My goal is to get over him, but my hope is that I won't ever have to.
I think there's a part of me that secretly hopes one day he'll come up out of the blue, emerging all breathy and dewy-eyed. He'll say that thing that every heart-stricken, shell of a girl has so yearn-fully been waiting for: I'm sorry it's taken me so long, but I'm here now, and I want you.
Ha! Movies starring Jennifer Garner tell us that things like this actually happen. And then movies starring Kate Hudson tell us that as long as we're being our true, quirky, authentic selves, then real love will always make its way back to us. But real life? Real life sucks you dry with the Fade Out, the Ghosting, the Discard, and—such as the case of me and Calum—the Never-Gonna-Happen.
But that's all fine (or at least it'll have to be fine), because he's with someone else now, and I think I maybe, might have met someone. Think is the operative word here. Besides, I've only known him for a few days now.
(But if you want to talk technicalities, I've known of him for a while. He's one of those names you hear floating around campus, a Valer celeb, which is wickedly impressive for a first year. I don't even think most of my professors can match my name to my face still.)
Jace Macmillan.
A name like that deserves a line of its own—as if his parents knew their son would grow into his name and make a sturdy reputation out of it. Or maybe they've preconditioned him, like set the precedent for his local celebritydom.
