You know how it is. You see that one person. You first fall for a physical trait, whether it is their hair, the way they smile, that curious twinkle in their eye, or maybe how they talk. Your tummy tumbles, turns, and then knots up until breathing becomes painful huffs. You can talk to them normally, as if they were a friend, but then you start thinking you like them. You begin questioning your feelings; throwing them around in your head like useless cards in a game. You keep the few cards you believe will bring you victory. But then, you remember those times you’ve lost. The bitterness you felt. The defeat. The regret. The pain. The lies. The anger. The confusion. The hopelessness. The repeating reels of moments you wished never had happened.
You tell yourself to forget all that and start new. Maybe it’ll be different. Maybe this person will show you that love really exists. Maybe you have a chance. Maybe the wounds you endured will make you stronger to love this person more than you did the last. But then, you question yourself again. You begin fearing that because you’re questioning, it won’t happen. You begin labeling your feelings. You begin remembering the rules to love. Was it love at first sight? Or was it love at first sight for only you? Is one supposed to fall instantly? Or is it to grow gradually, starting as friends and then lovers? Is it bad that the only thing you have in common is what’s playing on TV? Is it wrong to not talk a lot? Are people who are meant to be together always to talk about something? Such questions weigh on your mind until you just give up completely.
Then in the end, you try again because maybe you’ll never get a chance to love something. Perhaps this person needs a person like you. Though, who am I to play cupid? I’m not the author of love. I don’t even know how to appreciate myself. That is why I am terrified to meet Ms. Kris Madison. I want to be myself and not like her. I don’t want the excuse of her being a female be the reason I consider her. But, I’m already drawn to her. I want to get to know her. But I’ll let her decide—nothing worse than having a one sided friendship. Besides, what makes me believe she would even like me? What’s there to like besides my accent?
I still am having a hard time with Copper moving in with Fiona. I know that friends move on and that I shouldn’t be bitter. But, Copper is the only friend I trust. He’s the friend I had always wanted. He’s the friend that would go out with me and be stupid, or stand up beside me when we face schoolyard odds. I can’t imagine the flat without him. It’ll be so quiet, lonely, and boring. I feel that I will retract from the world again and not speak to anyone like I had done when I was seventeen at the boys’ home. I had been the butt of their jokes for years. The oldest boy who was twenty-three—such a young age to cultivate such hate—would bully me profusely. He threw a lot of inappropriate words at me and threatened me most of the time. But I remember, the eve before my seventeenth birthday, he told the whole lot about a crush I had on a girl.
Thankfully, the girl wasn’t there at the scene, but they made awful stories about “us,” and soon it got around to her and she thought I was really awkward and wouldn’t make a good boyfriend. It was quite upsetting to me because I thought I had a chance with her. She was pretty, sweet, and a daughter of one of my teachers. But apparently the boys had been sending her made up stories about me that weren’t true, but seemed believable at time. The only story I was privileged to hear from Copper was that I was a lonely psychopath who hated women and had written letters about killing the teachers and caretakers at the home and also secretly trying to turn everyone into zombies using black magic. All entirely not true.
Afterwards, I avoided relationships completely and continued to do well at my school assignments and heed the teachers. When Copper and I had left the boys’ home, we both agreed that it was the second best day of our lives.
Affectionately,
Benji Dore