I’ve given up.
No more staring at Facebook chats, re-scrolling through messages, no more secret, furtive looks at her profile to see what she’s been doing, no more taking circuitous routes to pass by the front of her apartment and glancing up at her windowsill and see if the light is on.
After much calculation and soul-searching and feeling generally pretty miserable about myself, I’ve come to a conclusion. I should stop, before it hurts me even deeper. Because it’s pretty obvious that my desperation and urge for her recognition is hurting my overall life, as well. I’ve stopped paying attention to my diet, I haven’t studied for my final exams as well as I’d liked to, and I’m leaving my other relationships – long-lasting ones and genuinely good friendships – in the dust. For what? To chase after a faraway star that probably doesn’t even know my true intentions, my real purpose?
I don’t want to be remembered as the Stalker, or the Maniac, or the Creepy One Who Hit On Me All The Time. At the very least, I want to be remembered as a Friend. And I can’t do that if I’m not satisfied by that designation.
So, I’d like to make an Internet announcement. It’s over. My short-lived flirtation with Romanticism is now dead and buried.
Or at least, that’s what I’ll be thinking until the next time I run into her, perhaps on the sidewalk, or just walking out into the cold air from a Starbucks I frequent, and then I’ll think to myself: “My lord, she’s beautiful”.
And I’ll start hating myself again. That’s just the way it goes. God help me.