Dark night, fair thoughts

They should invent a type of love where the ending does not hurt so much

As I sit in my bed, raised off the floor, surrounded by the sound of nothing yet everything, lit up by my bedside lamp that is illuminating in the darkness of the night, my thoughts begin to get heavy.

This is the time I think of you. This is the time I start wanting you.

I feel disappointed in myself when I remember how selective I am in my need for love - I seem to only crave it when convenient for me; in those moments of isolation, to have someone to cheer me on, or hold me whilst I sleep - but not in those moments where I am tired, or cannot bring myself to speak, or to accompany me at the dinner table.

I hate myself for being so selective. It echoes the recurring thought I have of feeling unloveable - how could you ever love me if I only wanted you sometimes?

You deserve better, surely.

I have imagined myself in your bed. Is that a peculiar thing to say? Not in an intimate way, just in the matter of us being closer to each other, and I imagine you comforting me. I have imagined my clothes in your dryer, or my food in your fridge, or my shoes by your door.

But I still get anxious to text you.

How could my shoes be at your door or my clothes be in your dryer if you are not aware of the feelings I have? You must think I am avoidant, you must think I do not care; although, it appears that you do not really wish to care either. Sure, you press that digital heart on my story more often than not, but is that love?

Is that the love that inspired poems, songs, books, or films?

I do not remember Emily Brontë sitting down to pen the final draft of Wuthering Heights, where the unrequited love story reaches its pinnacle as Cathy realises Heathcliff did not like her latest Instagram story.

Is that the love that burned so bright between us for so many years - what happened to that?

They should invent a type of love where the ending does not hurt so much. Where the ending, no matter how unsatisfying, does not concern me. It does not keep me up into the night, or ruminate about my person as I go about waking up in the morning, or fill me with anxiety as a boy who looks vaguely like you passes me by.

I miss the us we used to have. The one that did not care for story likes, or impersonal conversations, or any sort of distance placed between us.

We were okay then.