“So, are you dating anyone?”
“Bro this guy’s got you smiling at your phone like an idiot – tell me everything!”
“How’d it happen? You didn’t say anything? Chal chod, when do I get to meet him?”
God, it hurts when you say things like that, and I long to respond, “Never. You don’t get to meet him. How could I let you see that, see him? We’ve always been so interconnected. You know me in ways that I don’t know myself, and everyone sees right through our ‘friends’ facade. Everyone. Besides you.”
And hell, there isn’t anybody. I wish there was, but it’s you, and I hate myself for it. You’re the guy that has me giggling to myself, the one that fills my thoughts every second of the day, the one who gets me. And the worst part? You don’t even know it.
If we had this conversation, ever, I imagine you’d say, “Mish, come on – you could’ve told me. You tell me everything, na? Phir yeh kyun nahi?” Kyun? Kyuki, you wouldn’t get this. It isn’t like this for you, is it? You’re not the dating-your-friends type, and you’ve made that clear. You say losing a friend would suck, so you’d rather keep them around in some shape or form than risk it. If I told you, you’d think I somehow broke your trust, and while my heart feels like it shatters every time I think of how it’ll never be that good for us, I’d rather handle that than lose you.
Losing you. I hate that idea, those words. If I lost you, who’d listen to me every time I got into an argument with friends? Every time I needed to take some time off, someone to cheer me up? Someone to send silly texts to, and even have conversations about the future with?
Maybe it’s me, you know. Maybe I’m just another girl to you – you’re like this with everyone, aren’t you? I’m the dumbass here, the one who fell for your brand of charm & wit, your stupid smile, your…. everything.
How can I not be angry at myself? How can I let this go? Not talking to you is torture. But talking to you isn’t any better. I hate how I have to lie to you, I hate how I compare everyone I meet to you. I hate how I talk like you, the way I smile every time it happens.
You know me so well; you’d see right through me when I said I was okay even as my heart was ripping apart. I never thought it would be you tearing it to pieces. I want to hate you for hurting me like this, and for making me feel like this.
I hate how you smile at me, unabashedly. Your little dimple on perfect display, completely unaware of how the butterflies in my stomach flutter at the sight.
Sometimes, you say, “I like talking to you, I’m comfortable around you.” I’m comfortable around you, too. I wish I wasn’t so happy around you, I wish I didn’t feel like I belong when I’m around you. I hate how you make me feel so safe, so cared for.
To be seen so completely, and understood so carefully. To have someone that holds your heart like it’s the most delicate thing they’ve ever had. Someone who looks at you like you’re all they want, even when you break their heart. You do it all. You don’t even know you do, but you know me better than I know myself.
To be known is to be loved. You know me so well, and yet, it isn’t enough, is it? Why can’t it be? Dumbass, you just had to read me like a book and then put me right back on the shelf?
You know the nasty smile I gave that one girl who broke your heart when we were in the third grade. You try to convince me it was a long time ago, that you don’t care anymore. “I know you don’t, but I do. How dare she?”, I say, as you giggle. Your smile, it has so much power over my mood, you know? Would you still smile if I said something like, “She really messed up, I like you and I’d never say no”?
You know about all the times I’ve injured myself, every version of the stories of my childhood. You know how I hated wearing a cast, but you also know that I loved having you carry my bag around for me. How you ‘protected’ me. How I laughed, ‘like a criminal mastermind’, you’d say. “Kaam hi karane ke liye gir gayi na tu?”, you’d ask, shaking your head. Every memory, every story that has you in it is worth it.
You know the crease in my forehead when I worry about you. When you suddenly get all quiet, when you get sick, it feels like there’s a fundamental unbalance in the world. You know how to erase that crease, too. You grab my hand so effortlessly, squeeze it, and say, “Theek hu, tension kyun le rahi hai?”
You know about every guy I’ve liked. Every little ‘moment’ I’ve had with them, we’ve spent hours discussing. You know how I look when I’m in love, the way I blush. You know how I smile like an idiot at my phone, how I blush and stop talking every time they’re around. With you, somehow, you don’t see the very obvious signs. Your friends see it, they tease us all the time. I wish you’d see it too, but I’m scared it would ruin us. I hate how there’s this content tug of war in my heart: to continue pretending, or to confess?
The random pieces of my day – what I ate for lunch, the two-minute conversation I had with a professor. I tell you about it all, and you listen like it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever heard. I hate that I love sharing even the mundane with you.
Gossip about people you know, and people you don’t. You let me rant, you let me get it all out. You’re patient, and you make it better by just being around, you know? And your advice. No one gets me like you do. Every time I start to explain myself, you say, “Jaanta hu, you’re overthinking. Apna mood kyun kharab kar rahi hai? Go get some dessert, you’ll feel better.” I do feel better, but I hate how you have more to do with it than the chocolate ice cream I end up getting.
You know how my voice gets all low when I’ve had a shitty day. I usually say I don’t want to talk about it, but we both know I’m lying, don’t we? You never try to get me to talk to you, though. You know I will. Instead, you say stupid things. You tell me about how you aced a quiz, what you had for lunch. You take my mind off of it. I’ve never told you how much I appreciate that you do that, how you know just what I need.
I’ll tell you now. I appreciate how you understand everything about me, but I hate how I’m that easy for you to figure out. I hate you for knowing me so fucking well. I wanna say, “Stop”, but I also don’t want you to stop doing it, to leave.
You probably know it all, though. Every thought I’ve ever had about you, about everything. If I said it, you’d just say, “Emo kyun ho rahi hai, I know I’m amazing.” You are. You truly are, but…. you’re a dumbass.
Tujhe sab pata hai, toh yeh kyun nahi?
You’re my best friend. I like you. I’m sorry.