I’m sitting alone in a dark living room at the center of the universe – New York City. All is still and it seems as if time has stopped for a while. The city hums quietly outside the window reminding me that it hasn’t. It speaks to me, telling me that even though I feel frozen inside, stuck in an emotion, spending all morning trying and failing to articulate exactly what that feeling might be, the world continues to move. I am simply standing still in the center of the motion, choosing not to embrace it.
This is how I imagine everyone feels in New York some days. Insignificant in the grand scheme, when everything going on around you seems so much grander. But even in New York, not everything turns out to be so grand. It’s the home of failures and successes alike. But in preface to both of those, it’s a city of hope.
I had many hopes for this trip. I hoped that I would find a job. Get to spend time with my friends. Explore the city. And see one very specific boy.
It has been quite some time since I’ve cared enough to write down how I feel about a romantic situation. Mostly because it’s not often that I care. I don’t usually feel a connection to someone, and when I do, I am terrified of writing about it. Hell, I am terrified of moving. Breathing. Doing whatever it is that I do to fuck everything up. Because the only thing I know for certain when I meet someone special is that I will somehow fuck this up.
And I did.
I met this guy a while back, and for the third time in my life, I felt something crazy. An inexplicable gut reaction that he was someone important. Significant. It didn’t make sense to me at the time, and it still doesn’t now. It even sounds weird to say it out loud – I’m almost embarrassed to acknowledge it. But the first time I had this feeling, I ended up married. The second time, I met someone I still revert back to, even after a year. So I knew enough to trust that he was special. To trust that we’d meet again, and even if it wasn’t love, it would be something meaningful. Something that changed me.
But it wasn’t.
He lives in New York, and I told him we should meet up this weekend while I’m in town. We didn’t coordinate well enough on Friday night, and didn’t get to see each other. Neither of us was happy about it. The next morning he told me he wished that I was there. I did, too. We promised to plan better that night and spend all day being lazy together on Sunday. I felt relieved. Excited. I knew that things would work themselves out when I saw him. Because they had to.
But Sunday never happened. I still don’t really understand why. But here I am, spending my Sunday wandering the streets and trying to understand what I did wrong. Everything I do seems only half real, because this is not my Sunday. This is an alternate universe where everything that could have gone wrong did. Where I lost him before I even saw him again. Where I said something wrong. Where I put myself out there. Where I got blown off.
After all I have been through, I just don’t understand. All I asked for is one fucking day. One day to spend with someone who gives me butterflies. How do I not deserve one day?
It isn’t so much him that upsets me as the hope he represented to me. The hope that I could be happy and comfortable with someone, if only for a few hours. And I know it’s silly to be so sad about someone I hardly knew. But I’m a silly girl.
The funny thing is that while all of this was happening, a guy from my past showed up. We went out once a long time ago, had fun, and I was very surprised and disappointed when he never followed up. I liked him, but I got over it. And now, here he was. Living in New York. Asking me out again and again, begging for another chance.
It seems that timing is my enemy these days. Because I can’t go back and change getting over someone, and I can’t change that someone got over me. Perhaps I’m more ready for a new love than I thought I was. But it seems that love is not yet ready for me.