journal · letter

Drunk Love


When will I be drunk enough to say that I think you didn’t give me a chance because you were too scared that something might go wrong, or that someone would get hurt? That you don’t know me well enough to ever know what could have happened and you didn’t even try to. That perhaps, although your life’s uncertainty may have played a role, you seem to harbor a fairly paralyzing uncertainty with romance, jumping from one crush to the next in a whimsical frenzy. That it wasn’t just me being shy or awkward that made it so difficult for anything, be it physical or emotional, to happen between us, but your near-inaccessibility, your drinking too much, your being afraid of possibilities that barely even had an opportunity to exist. That I’ve never felt completely comfortable around you, because I was worried about what you thought, but I always wanted to. That now I won’t have that chance. That all of these things did, in fact, hurt me. That I’m not saying any of this to be malicious or intentionally hurt you, but because it is simply how I feel. That somehow, against every odd and disappointment, against me telling myself that I would not invest a single drop of emotion into this, that it would be nothing more than friends and simple sex because I was so certain your type was hit-and-run, I ended up caring about you. My bad. Sex is never simple, I suppose. No, sex is simple. It’s attraction that’s messy and annoying and has so many kinks and glitches and unwanted side effects that it’s always fucking someone over. And as I write this I know that I will never actually be drunk enough to tell you any of this. It would take way too long and might make me look like a crazy person. And hell, maybe I am. Maybe it’s time to be okay with that, as well as knowing that you will probably never know any of these things. You probably don’t even remember how I was there for you that night. Won’t ever see how deeply I do care. And perhaps… perhaps being okay with it means that I don’t have to keep hiding it. But I can’t go out of my way to tell you, either. So, if it comes up, well and so. And in the meantime, in the quiet interim of friendship and furtive glances, I’ll just keep on hoping that that cute, little glare you give me when I say something you don’t like, or the way you kicked my feet when we were lying on the floor, or how you say my name when you don’t expect me to be somewhere… that all of those tiny things you do, mean you might care a little bit, too. Because whether I like it or not, I really like you. And I need to believe that’s true.

It doesn’t get any sincerer than this,


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