the day i quit my unrequited love

my unrequited love

Love. What is love? I can’t give it a clear definition. But I think it’s like a coin. The shiny, shimmery gold or silver coin that holds great value depending on whoever has it. Now, a coin has two sides: heads and tails. I say that the heads can be the kind of love that gives you euphoria, a sense of unexplainable elation and wonder. The kind of love where sometimes it’s an ember, sometimes it’s fire. Constantly changing but never burning out. Then, there’s the tails. The opposite of the love from the other side. I’ll say it’s sort of a love that never flourishes. The kind of love that easily gets burned out. An ember that didn’t get a chance to grow. The longing and painful love that makes your heart ache.

Now, based on my definition, I would have easily categorized my situation. I thought so too. But as I continue to cry myself to sleep in my pillow, I still don’t know.

The digital clock in my bedside table blared 12:50 am. I’m thankful there’s no work tomorrow to attend. Since my failed confession yesterday, I can’t get myself to sleep. When I got in my bed and recalled everything, tears just fell. Maybe, I am overreacting. After all, I didn’t even get rejected. But there’s this frustration bubbling up in me. As if saying, I did it again. My inevitable, ‘I got a crush and it’s unrequited again.’

It sucks when you give all your love, but you can never get the same.

Thinking about it, my cowardice earlier may have been the result of all the unrequited loves I had. Like a second reflex, as it’s all the loves that I ever had. If love is between two people who have somehow kindled the same feeling, albeit of how long, then how come unrequited love exists? I’m not even sure if I can count on it as an experience in love.

Am I that unlucky in love? Or am I really just ugly-- an ugly face with an ugly personality? What do I, Sadie Reynos, have to do to be enough?

Lonelier than ever, and counting on the silence aside from my sobs, I can’t say that it’s a comfort. I would’ve bore a hole in my ceiling with all the staring. In heavy breaths, I try to get as much air. The dryness and saltiness camp in my tongue. So, I sat up from my bed. I pulled a tissue from my bedside table and wiped the snot and tears off of my face. My nose is still clogged as I turned on the lights of my room and scanned my small book shelf at the corner. Reading something always distracts me. In this time, a book can only be my solace for a brief time before I remember and think about everything again.

I got off my bed and scooted myself near the shelves. If I’m lucky, I can find something I have never read before. It’s always a pleasure to read a book for the first time. I touched the spines as I choose my read for tonight. My finger smoothly moved from book to book until I reached the final book in my shelf. The thin book spine of “The Boyfriend List” by E. Lockhart. I remember that it is by no means a  masterpiece, just a light read from my high school days. I don’t remember much of the details so I pulled it out. 
I read the book blurb. And somehow, I recalled the plot. It’s about a girl named Ruby who has anxiety and was made to make a list of boys by her shrink. It was interesting and not anything I expected when I read it for the first time. I remember being amazed when the shrink perfectly correlated her anxiety with the experiences she had with the boys on the list. Through writing that list, Ruby discovered things she had not noticed about herself.

As I put the book down, I felt a pang in myself. An urge to write things and discover myself. There’s nothing wrong if I try, right? If I’m lucky, I can even discover why the hell do I always experience unrequited love. Since I don’t have any psychiatrist, maybe it will do if I write it in a way as if I am talking to someone. Maybe it will do.

So I clumsily ran to my study table, pulling out blank papers and my trusty pen. I am by no means a writer, and I am doing this impulsively. But if it’s the only way I can pass the time and distract myself, all the while doing something that can be therapeutic, then I’m doing it.