I Capital L Love You

i think of you, you think of her

March 7th
Dear Oliver,

     That night at the party started a year-long cat and mouse game between you and Bri. She played hard to get, but you played harder and were triumphant in the end.

     I died a little bit inside each day, seeing the lengths you went to for her. I had no right to feel sorry for myself because I didn't put in that effort for you, but I still did. Other than Loving you in secret, throwing a pity party is what I do best.

     A few weeks before we graduated college, you asked me a question that has been bouncing around in the empty chambers of my mind ever since.

We were laying in the grass at one of our favorite childhood parks, just enjoying each other's company and looking up at the clouds. All the sudden, you rolled over and spoke, "Sophie, how do you know when you're in love?" Your emerald green eyes looked into mine and delivered the final blow to my frail heart, "I think I'm falling in love with Bri."

An atrocious feeling burgeoned all throughout my body. My throat constricted, my mouth was drier than a desert, and it felt like a brick was hanging out in my stomach.

"What do you think, Sophie? How do you think you know?" you continued, those eyes imploring mine, searching for answers to questions that I had known for years.

You used my name, too – something you rarely do. That meant it was serious. Cue another crack to my splintered heart.

I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and gave you what you wanted to hear: "Um, probably feeling like the person is your whole world. They're your reason for getting up in the morning, and they're all you think about all day. You can't wait to spend time with them, and you want to be as close as physically possible to them. You love everything about them: their smile, their idiosyncrasies, their voice, and just... every little thing about them. You feel incomplete without them and so... indescribably complete when they're near," I said. "But, I don't know. I haven't been in love," I quickly tacked on to throw you off my tail. As if that would change anything.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as the weight of my words sank into your mind.

A lip-splitting grin took over your face in slow motion. "That's exactly what I feel for Bri... She's my everything. Thank you, Soapy."

     Oh. What a shame that you are my everything. I think of you, you think of her. How beautifully tragic it is that my stars are crossed.

     "Anytime," I remember whispering.

This was all said a year ago, but I remember it verbatim.

I thought about that constantly for probably two weeks after it happened. And occasionally, my brain pushes that conversation back into my mind when it's feeling especially cruel.

That little conversation is just one of those things that everyone on Earth has. You know, that embarrassing and/or heartbreaking thing that you can't forget. It comes up in your mind randomly when you're trying to fall asleep, and the littlest, most obscure thing reminds you of it, causing a fresh wave of embarrassment to douse you.

For me, it's whenever I smell freshly cut grass. Since then, the crisp scent wafts into my nostrils and brings me back to last May. Or I'm lying in bed, thinking about my day when all of the embarrassing things I've done come flying at me. First and foremost on that list is The Conversation.

The Conversation wasn't embarrassing to have, per se, but it was awkward, and just thinking about it makes me cringe and have second-hand embarrassment. And how could I forget the fresh rounds of sobs that accompanied my writing of the previous page?

Why am I reliving this dreadful moment voluntarily? Why do I want to punish myself with the memory?

Maybe I'm a masochist.

Or maybe, just maybe, I'm trying to numb myself to that pain so it doesn't hurt as much whenever I smell grass or decide to go on a walk at that park. Little things like that shouldn't trigger me, but they do.

I need to figure out how to stop my memories of previously happy things from being tainted just because of one gut-wrenching talk there. We have so many pleasant memories at that park, but I choose to remember the worst thing that has happened to me there. Why should my memory be tainted because of one bad experience?

The weird thing is that it's the place that's tainted, not you. Does that make sense? Rather than remembering that single moment when I see you, I remember the moment when I smell grass or go to the park.

And why is that?

Maybe it's because nothing can taint my Love for you, Oliver. Not even you loving another girl. Not even being constantly hurt by your actions. Not even reliving our past to find something that might help me climb out of this rabbit hole.

If nothing I have tried so far works, then what will? Is there something that is able to disintegrate my Love for you? Or maybe my Love is plastic – it can be battered and shattered but won't decompose for thousands of years. Plastic is condemned to a future of sitting in a desolate landfill, just like my lonely heart.

The future.

But what about the present? Or the past?

You know what? Maybe the answer to all my questions isn't embedded in our past memories. Maybe the trick to falling out of Love with you is in the present...

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