self, I love you and I think it's okay to be selfish this time
April 1, 2018 Sunday 11:26 PM
We went to the movie. Mostly talked to Moby, sat next to him during the movie. I was able to follow the whole thing pretty easily, but I could feel the churning effect he has on me in my stomach and, compounded with the anxiety of unreturned affection, it was not pleasant. Plus I lost my earrings. They were red-beaded hoops. I really liked them.
There were some moments that were weird and made me sad. One was after the movie. Moby was wearing a maroon RISD sweatshirt and I told him I liked it, and he said, "Thanks. It was given to me." But he didn't specify who gave it to him, and he almost always specifies, which means that it's from The Girl. And he is wearing it around. Because he likes her. So partly it hurts because of that. Partly because he won't even tell me it's from his Girl. And partly because if he did tell me it was from his Girl, if he decided not to hold back about liking her and wanting her in every part of his life, if he described everything he liked about her, I would probably have to grind myself up into little pieces and sprinkle myself around the base of the newly planted tree on the Main Green.
On the way back, his friend was all, "When are you gonna give that poor girl her sweater back?" and Moby said, "She GAVE it to me," and his friend went on about stealing; Marie started talking into the void, into the chaotic mix of noise from multiple people, about stealing and I joined the conversation and avoided looking directly at Moby and I made sure to smile and laugh as much as I could in case he looked at me—so that he would know that I am okay.
I have saved my stomachache and stony face for the semi-privacy of my dorm room. Here it only half-unfolds, because I don't want to cry anymore. It hurts more because he is fiiiine, fine fine fine. More than fine! Really happy. Damn, I wish we'd never met. Well, I'll swipe through Tinder to ease the agony, sift through these boys hoping to find one I will adore even when he talks with a mouth of burrito and gets an earring in one ear (which I usually think is tacky, but not this time). And I won't spend time with Moby alone, not for a long time, because he physically—hurts me. Because I like him so much. I won't give him things anymore, I don't think I can afford to. By that, I mean hugs or kicks or punches or pinky waves or little finger hugs. I don't want to give him those things that tell him I adore him and I want to eat him whole, have him dissolve in my stomach and diffuse into the tips of my fingers. I can't, I can't, I can't. I want him to miss me and I want him to hurt. I know that's petty, but it would feel good, to be the one who doesn't give him what he wants. And maybe it'd damage our friendship in the long-run. Whatever, it's already damaged on one side, so I might as well. I might as well be a little selfish.
(Deep down, I know it will only help a little, because even if he misses me I won't know how much. If I did know, it wouldn't be enough.)