many girls he’s invited up to his room. I was probably the next contestant on his list of “Player’s Price is Right.” I can’t believe I fell for a guy like that. So stupid.
Now I have to get him ou t of my head. Should be easy, right?
Who am I kidding!
How do you stop liking someone? Can I just will myself to let him go? How do I forget his lips? Or his touch? Or how his eyes looked like they were memorizing my every feature? Is it possible to see him again and not burst into tears?
I don’t think I want to.
Tears dripped onto the pages as I wrote. The more I wiped them away, the heavier they seemed to fall. Eventually, I gave up. Questions with no answers flooded my mind, making me more confused. My stomach weaved itself into a tight ball. Setting my diary aside, I grabbed the wastepaper basket. I heaved until my chest hurt.
Fire and ice burned in my veins. I picked up my diary and chucked it across my bedroom. After it smacked against the door, I regretted throwing it. I waited a few seconds, hoping my mother wouldn’t come up, wondering if I was all right. When she didn’t come, I collapsed face down on my bed.
My pillow sopped wet with tears, so I turned it over and sobbed until the other side matched. No amount of crying would wash away t he rejection.
In my mind, I replayed the afternoon. What if I hadn’t gone inside? Or upstairs? Why had I wanted to organize his room? I would still be holding onto the false assumption that he cared about me.
My mother knocking on my bedroom door woke me up the next morning. I pulled the blankets up to my chest so she wouldn’t see that I’d fallen asleep with my clothes on. No uncomfortable questions that way.
“Yeah?” I flipped onto my stomach to hide the signs of distress.
“Are you hungry?”
“Uh, no. I’m fine. Just worn out from the chemo.”
“Okay, sweetie. Come down when you feel rested.”
I nodded into the pillow.
As soon as the door clicked, emptiness engulfed me again, and the pain that was forgotten in sleep returned with all its fury. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, curling into the fetal position. Unlike Damian’s way for numbing the pain, I would have to suffer through mine. Not fair.
It was past eleven in the morning when my cell rang. I fumbled for it, almost knocking it off my bed. The text was simple.
Thank you.
The number belonged to Damian. I cried myself back to sleep.
If I could have skipped my treatment on Monday, I would have. I didn’t want to see him. What would I say? He didn’t know what I had seen laying on his floor. He didn’t know I knew, and I didn’t want to be that girl.
I walked as slowly as I could to the third floor of the hospital, wondering why I hadn’t just gone home. There were so many times I considered turning back, running to my car and speeding off. But Damian would be there the next time. And the time after that. And the time after that.
“I was starting to get worried,” Leslie said as I passed the nurses’ station. “You’re thirty minutes late. Very unlike you.”
“I know. Sorry.” I didn’t make eye contact.
“Well, let’s get started.”
I followed her to the chemo room, looking behind me a few times. Where was he? Part of me wanted him to be worried about my lateness, like Leslie. I pictured him pacing the hallway, or sitting in my chair in the tiny room, restless with his phone in hand. In my mind, it would be the proof I needed that he cared, that the kiss was real.
But I searched in vain. I spent my two hours alone, pretending to read my book, flipping through my diary and tapping my pencil on the arm of the chair. Minutes ticked by slower than ever. With flared nostrils, I fought the tears back. I pursed my lips together and made clock-watching my new hobby.
He isn’t coming.
I bowed my head and sobbed. H is not showing up vindicated the ache in my heart. No matter what I had convinced myself of all weekend, until now I’d held on to the hope
Now I have to get him ou t of my head. Should be easy, right?
Who am I kidding!
How do you stop liking someone? Can I just will myself to let him go? How do I forget his lips? Or his touch? Or how his eyes looked like they were memorizing my every feature? Is it possible to see him again and not burst into tears?
I don’t think I want to.
Tears dripped onto the pages as I wrote. The more I wiped them away, the heavier they seemed to fall. Eventually, I gave up. Questions with no answers flooded my mind, making me more confused. My stomach weaved itself into a tight ball. Setting my diary aside, I grabbed the wastepaper basket. I heaved until my chest hurt.
Fire and ice burned in my veins. I picked up my diary and chucked it across my bedroom. After it smacked against the door, I regretted throwing it. I waited a few seconds, hoping my mother wouldn’t come up, wondering if I was all right. When she didn’t come, I collapsed face down on my bed.
My pillow sopped wet with tears, so I turned it over and sobbed until the other side matched. No amount of crying would wash away t he rejection.
In my mind, I replayed the afternoon. What if I hadn’t gone inside? Or upstairs? Why had I wanted to organize his room? I would still be holding onto the false assumption that he cared about me.
My mother knocking on my bedroom door woke me up the next morning. I pulled the blankets up to my chest so she wouldn’t see that I’d fallen asleep with my clothes on. No uncomfortable questions that way.
“Yeah?” I flipped onto my stomach to hide the signs of distress.
“Are you hungry?”
“Uh, no. I’m fine. Just worn out from the chemo.”
“Okay, sweetie. Come down when you feel rested.”
I nodded into the pillow.
As soon as the door clicked, emptiness engulfed me again, and the pain that was forgotten in sleep returned with all its fury. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, curling into the fetal position. Unlike Damian’s way for numbing the pain, I would have to suffer through mine. Not fair.
It was past eleven in the morning when my cell rang. I fumbled for it, almost knocking it off my bed. The text was simple.
Thank you.
The number belonged to Damian. I cried myself back to sleep.
If I could have skipped my treatment on Monday, I would have. I didn’t want to see him. What would I say? He didn’t know what I had seen laying on his floor. He didn’t know I knew, and I didn’t want to be that girl.
I walked as slowly as I could to the third floor of the hospital, wondering why I hadn’t just gone home. There were so many times I considered turning back, running to my car and speeding off. But Damian would be there the next time. And the time after that. And the time after that.
“I was starting to get worried,” Leslie said as I passed the nurses’ station. “You’re thirty minutes late. Very unlike you.”
“I know. Sorry.” I didn’t make eye contact.
“Well, let’s get started.”
I followed her to the chemo room, looking behind me a few times. Where was he? Part of me wanted him to be worried about my lateness, like Leslie. I pictured him pacing the hallway, or sitting in my chair in the tiny room, restless with his phone in hand. In my mind, it would be the proof I needed that he cared, that the kiss was real.
But I searched in vain. I spent my two hours alone, pretending to read my book, flipping through my diary and tapping my pencil on the arm of the chair. Minutes ticked by slower than ever. With flared nostrils, I fought the tears back. I pursed my lips together and made clock-watching my new hobby.
He isn’t coming.
I bowed my head and sobbed. H is not showing up vindicated the ache in my heart. No matter what I had convinced myself of all weekend, until now I’d held on to the hope
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