SAD!

Who am I? Someone that’s afraid to let go
You decide, if you’re ever gonna let me know
Suicide, if you ever try to let go
I’m sad and low, yeah, I’m sad I know

I’m left confused, humiliated and rejected. It’s weird that men are never taught how to deal with these emotions, isn’t it? Now, the rational side of my brain knows this is not about me, not necessarily – I’m a means to an end, we all are to somebody. I’m trying to not feel broken hearted – if that even makes sense – because I have no reason to be, right?

I’m more disappointed in myself and that’s the weirdest thing about it. I feel like I could’ve done better – I’m sure, in some dark recess of my tiny brain I honestly think I almost had him. He was almost mine.

I don’t insist, I try to let go because I’m basically at fault for what’s happening to me and I try to process this as best as I can. Yes, I’m listening to Beyonce on repeat.

I left a note in the hallway
By the time you read it, I’ll be far away

These kind of things leave you vulnerable. The damage I caused feels irreparable – am I going crazy? I’m already so broken, unavailable, damaged goods, how could I even hope to make myself at least a little bit better?

Well, that night I cried myself to sleep again while listening to I’m not the only one, but when I wake up – I have a plan. A crazy plan (at some point I fell down that rabbit hole, fight me) and I’m thinking I need to get in touch with C. I need to. After all, he stalked me first, that makes it OK, right? Chill, I’m not that crazy to actually justify fucking stalking somebody, but I think I still have a pretty good grasp of reality so if he’s offended I’ll peacefully back off. I know, there’s a high probability that he’ll beat me up – aaand I need a fucking therapist.

I’m thinking I’ll make it look like we’ve accidentally met. The only problem (I mean, not the only, but one of them) is that New York is big and it’s highly unlikely that we hang out in the same places. So I decide to book 5 days at the hotel we met twice now. Do I risk having the police called on me for stalking somebody? Yes, but we’re technically on the border of illegal so I’m hoping nobody will cause a scene.

Five days to actually see if I’ll meet him (which I think might be unlikely because he’d change hotels, right?). I’ve not thought anything through – let me make that clear, my brain is fully developed but I can still be stupid, so yeah. I’m saying to myself that I need a few days away from my tear-soaked pillow anyway, this is a fancy hotel – Imma have myself some fun, some relax time, pool time, fun fun fun.

3 days later – no sign of him.

I’ve given up. I’m getting drunk like every night, I’m already thinking about maybe going away – volunteer somewhere, give back to the community I’m ruining just by being part of it. And as I’m sitting at a fairly hidden table I see this dude coming up to the bar. He’s nicely dressed, smelling like he dunked himself in patchouli and he’s quite nervous. He asks the bartender:

“Hey, have you seen a guy called C-? I’m a bit late and I’m wondering whether we missed each other.”

My heart skips a beat. Is this my night? Boy, I wish I wasn’t wearing my sweatpants. I’m quick as whip though, I get up and tap this guy on the shoulder before the bartender gets to say anything:

“Yeah, you just missed him. He just left like 10 minutes ago. Maybe you could call him – do you have his number?”

He’s perplexed at first, but he recovers well and tells me:

“What? 10 minutes ago? No, I don’t have his number. They haven’t…”

His voice trails off, not wanting to give me too many details. He continues:

“Well then… I guess I should get going.”

And. He. Leaves. I’m triumphant I fucking swear. I feel like I’m on top of the world. The bartender gives me the ugliest side-eye I’ve ever seen in my life – he doesn’t know what’s going on, but he does not like me. I’m wondering whether I could have the time to change into something that are not sweatpants, but they’re nice sweatpants and I don’t trust the bartender at this point. I’m also wondering whether I’ll be the first who ever does something like this to him. Isn’t it weird how men always want to know if they’re the first to do something to someone?

I’m not left for too long with my thoughts – I see him coming up to the bar and I brace for impact. I know I’m doing something wrong and fucked-up, but I can’t stop myself in the same way you can’t stop yourself from looking at a train-wreck – you need to fucking see.

I start walking towards him and as he sees me I give him the biggest scare (I think) he’s ever had. He doesn’t not think for a second more and he bolts for the fucking door. All I’m thinking is that I’m definitely the first who’s ever done this to him. I also feel like a complete trash and my previous feelings of success and accomplishment are washed away by the fear in this boy’s eyes. I don’t want to follow him but I feel trapped and suffocated by the people who are watching me very intently (bartender included), so I exit the restaurant and I exit the hotel too – even though I’m sure he’s already gone.

I need a smoke. My plan was shit.

I sit my sorry ass on the steps and I light a cigarette. I’m not a smoker, but it helps me cope with becoming a proper stalker and an asshole. As I sit there looking (probably) quite pitiful like a wet dog out in the rain, I see him approach me. So he hasn’t left after all.

“I thought you left.”

“I thought you were going to follow me.”

“I’m sorry for being a creep – I want to say this is not me, but it’s what I’ve become. I felt so anesthetized before I met you and you just left me wanting more”, and I start to proper ugly cry. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I promise I won’t follow, you can go. I already fucked up your date for the night so you can punch me in the face if that would make you feel better, but I just…”

“Would it make you feel better?”

I’m still crying.

“What?”

“Would it make you feel better if I punched you for messing with my date?”

“Yeah…”

And he sits down next to me and hugs me. I wish he’d never let me go. I wish it would be OK to fall in love with him, to kiss him, to be with him, but maybe that’s exactly why I’m so obsessed, so infatuated – because I can’t have him. I cry for like 10 minutes, I just can’t seem to stop. I’m a fucking weirdo.

He kisses my forehead and that warms me up inside.

“Wanna go to McDonald’s?” he asks.

I’m pretty shocked by his question, so I ask: “McDonald’s?”

“Yeah, I’m hungry and I wanna take you out to something I can afford. What did you do to my date, by the way?”

“He was late, so I told him you already left.”

“Smart boy. McDonald’s then?”

“Sure.”