When I was younger, I’d hear stories and watch movies about love. It was and has always been one of my most favorite things… love. In all stories, the scenario that most stuck with me is how they struggle to say what they truly want to say. It takes so much time and ups and downs before they get there. It’s so blatantly obvious, by the look on their faces, or the tears flooding her eyes as she chokes out the words “It’s okay, I understand.” or “I’m happy for you.” It’s that person who loves their best friend but stands on the sidelines torturing themselves. Or the ones who are clearly deeply in love, but they’re too proud to express themselves, so they continuously go their separate ways wasting time. Or the guy who doesn’t think he’s not good enough for her, so he decides to make the decision FOR her that they shouldn’t be together. I would sit there thinking how absolutely silly that all is. I’d think to myself “Just tell them how you really feel!” because it would save the pain they put each other through, and they’d get to be happily together, right? How easy I thought it was. For so long, I thought how easy it would have been to just say it. How easy… And then I grew up.
In a way, I miss that kind of innocence of being a young woman who hadn’t experienced much, who wasn’t wise, who wasn’t self aware, who was clueless. The simplicity, and the imagination to continue dreaming of a perfect scenario. That ease of being young enough to have no idea what you wanted in someone, or what love should feel like. To not know the reality of relationships and the expectations. I miss that feeling of being a little bit naive. I wouldn’t have to think of the long term. What it might do to me emotionally if I were to hold onto someone who was toxic. What it might do if I were to call, or say what was in my head. What it would feel like to act on my emotions right then and there.
Instead, I learned lessons. The ones that after time taught me to know better, to trust my gut, and to respect myself. The ones that have brought me to a point where I don’t get to be spontaneous about my actions or feelings. I get to wake up thinking you were still there, or take a shower and see you when I close my eyes. I get to sing “our song” horribly and think of you covering your ears, or how you’d tuck me into bed like a cocoon. I get to sit in the passenger seat missing your hand, resting on my leg. I get to sit, staring off wondering…
Instead, I’ve learned to smile confidently, like I gave myself the five days.