Friday, I had a headache all day. I ended up falling asleep for the night at 7:30, which is a little lame but whatever. I’ve been having pretty fucked up dreams lately, and I guess that night should be no exception.
At first I wasn’t sure where I was, but it became obvious to me pretty quickly.
It was a room full of tables. Very rustic looking. Wooden tables, chairs, benches. You were there, with one of those vests that’s satiny in the back. Your hair was down, which I love. Well, let’s be honest, I love it up, too. I just love how long and blonde and curly it is. You had a satiny-backed vest. The back was purple, and I feel like the shirt you had on was dark green. Whatever it was, you had the sleeves rolled up. You came up to me with a huge smile on your face, your eyes crinkly in that beautiful way they are when you’re happy. You put your arm around me, which I suppose should have let me know that I was dreaming, since you almost never do that without me prompting you. PDA isn’t something you’ve ever been into. But you did it, with the crinkly eyes and the beautiful hair and you kissed me on the mouth and told me I looked beautiful. That you’ve done before, though still not often.
You want to know the best part about you telling me I looked beautiful? I looked down at myself, and I actually did! Or I felt like I did. I realized my hair was curly, but it’s been doing that on its own more and more lately. I was wearing a white mermaid dress, and it was all meshy and ruchy and had a sparkly belt. I must have been wearing some sort of heel, because I was closer to your height than I normally am.
I looked around and saw that I knew some of the people at the tables. They were my family, my friends. Your family, from pictures I’ve seen. Your friends.
I turned back to you, and you were trying to peel fondant off what turned out to be a styrofoam square. You kept reaching to a shelf near us, and kept picking styrofoam squares. You gave up, and told me this must not be it.
We split up, to walk around and talk to people. Despite the fact that I was obviously not my normal 5'6", I had no trouble walking. I felt amazing, and my face hurt from my smile, which is cliche, but I had obviously figured out what was going on. I remember really soft lighting, but it wasn’t difficult to see anything. I was saying hello to someone that I “knew” was your aunt, and suddenly there you were. And there was the cake. It was definitely Beauty and the Beast themed, which sounds lame, but I promise it wasn’t. I honestly don’t remember much about the cake, aside from us feeding each other and me not giving a sweet flying fuck that the cake didn’t actually taste like anything. People clapped, and then they weren’t looking at us anymore. You had your shirt unbuttoned a bit at the top, and I could see the little bit of your chest I can always see, and I leaned in and told you that I loved the cake, but it must have cost an inordinate amount of money. You kissed me cheek, smiled, and shrugged.
Then I woke up.
For my entire adult life, I have been “the type of girl” who doesn’t want a big wedding. The anxiety that blossomed in my early twenties has made it hard for me to have an entire room’s attention focused on me, and that same anxiety gives me heart palpitations thinking about all the planning and people that go into a *traditional* wedding. I have long supported the City Hall wedding, with only the necessary witnesses. I have always wanted a “cheap” wedding. In fact, I own a wedding dress that I bought on Etsy for $40, that someone made from upcycled materials. It is in no way shape or form the mermaid dress I had on in my dream.
I still don’t want an expensive wedding. I still don’t want a lot of people involved in the planning or the execution. But at that moment, I didn’t give a sweet flying fuck who was looking at me. I cared about how happy you were to be looking at me. I want that. I want to see you look at me that way, unhindered by the anxieties you yourself have.
I know you. I won’t be so bold as to say that I know you better than anyone else does, but I know you very well. We are best friends. You have told me about things that you haven’t told other people. I feel like I have seen the essence of your being. I know that if you were able to get past how much you hate yourself, and how much you think you can’t make me happy, that this dream could come true. If you were able to internalize that I am happy with you the way you are, and all I want in turn is to work with you every day for our mutual happiness, then that could be us.
When I look at you, I see my husband. Not just when I see you coming to get me in the elevator, or across the table when we’re out to dinner. Not just when you’ve carefully curated your outfit and hair. I see my husband when you’re at your computer playing your game in a hoodie with unbrushed hair. I see my husband when you sit on your chair on the balcony, smoking a cigarette and trying to “fix” your hair. I see my husband when you’re asleep, with a pillow covering your eyes and your mouth hanging open.
You think that us continuing to have sex is making the break-up harder for me. I’m obviously still sexually attracted to you, and it actually makes me feel better to know that you’re still sexually attracted to me, too. It makes me feel less crazy. It’s everything else that’s hard for me.
It’s hard for me to watch you be so into your videogame.
It’s hard for me to hear you comment on the show going on in the background or something I say to you while you’re playing.
It’s hard for me to wake up in the middle of the night to you cuddling up to me and wrapping your arm around me.
It’s hard for me when you lean in to hug me and kiss me on the mouth when I leave your apartment.
It’s hard for me to look to my side and see you walking with me when we go somewhere.
It’s hard to hear the sound of your voice, especially on the phone.
It’s hard for me to talk about “issues” that we both agree on and are passionate about.
It’s hard for me to watch you sit on your stool and smoke a cigarette.
It’s hard for me to listen to you talk to your friends on the game chat.
It’s hard for me to hear you talk about going to shows together that haven’t even been announced yet.
It’s hard for me when you make dinner for me.
It’s hard for me to make dinner for you.
Bottom line: I can’t just be friends with you. Eventually, I will break, and I won’t be able to do it anymore. I love you and I am in love with you. You are life. I haven’t felt this way about someone since I was sixteen years old. Which is odd, because you actually remind me of him a lot. With you, I feel safe and respected and validated and good. I feel like I am pretty and smart and funny and worth listening to. I feel like I am worth being told things, and I am worth your time. My heart beats for you, and if there was a way for you to understand that that is ok and you deserve that, then this would work.
You told me today that you are too old to get married. You said it in a joking way, but deep down I know you are somewhat serious. There is no fucking age limit on marriage. And if there is, you haven’t reached it yet. You told me the other day about how you avoided giving money to a fake-sounding charity by blaming your “wife.” You can’t possibly imagine how much I want that title. I want you to buy one of the rings I’ve favorited on Etsy, and I want us to buy two rings of power, and I want us to be married. I love you so much, and if there is no way for you to work past the state we’re in now, then I’m going to have to go away. I don’t want to. In fact, it’s the last thing I want to do. But I can’t be friends, let alone best friends, with someone I know I belong with, but can’t have.
