Strangers

Have you ever been in love with someone?

I think that I have. I think that I am.

But when you’re only sixteen, saying you’re in love feels stupid. It’s like the words don’t fit in your mouth correctly. They feel awkward, even in your brain.

Is it possible to become addicted to another human being?

He’s like a pack of cigarettes tucked into my back pocket. Absentmindedly, I pull him out, take out a little piece of him. Like the sound of my name in his mouth. Like the smell that hung on his clothes. Like the way his eyes smiled when he said something wicked. Like the way his breath felt against my ear. Like the countless knowing glances that were exchanged. Like the sound of him singing under his breath. Like the song "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" by The Offspring.

And I light it up and let it burn in my mind. It calms me down. It brings a small, bittersweet grin to my face. It takes me away.

And it eats away at the inside of me.

Sometimes I wonder if I ever even knew him, because I certainly don’t anymore.

I remember what it was like to have a crush on him.

Mouthing the words of "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" as it blasted from his computer, meeting my gaze as I did the same. Nowadays, those chords make my throat tingle, the same sort of lump that forms when you're frantically searching for something that you have lost.

Telling me he hated my "I ♥ NY" t-shirt, because it was so cliché, and I told him that's why I liked it.

Smiling to myself when he told me his girlfriend had dumped him, but replying with, "Oh, really? Why?" like I was actually concerned.

Watching him walk into shop class, fresh from an extended period of Chemistry class, which he despised, and asking smugly, "How was Chem?" Him letting out a scoff and replying with, "Long," he paused, gave me one of his wicked, admittedly roguish grins, "…and hard." I rolled my eyes and laughed in spite of myself.

Scrolling through the unorganized list of songs on his Blackberry, familiar titles catching my eye on the cracked screen. One headphone each, hushed conversation, there was only two people in the world.

Something like jealousy burning just behind his green eyes when he saw me laughing at something Jordan said, comfortable by his side, sharing food with him, listening to Protest The Hero. His obvious attempts at making me jealous too, and the way they always worked. Oh, how we pissed each other off.

Him falling into step beside me as we left class, talking and laughing until we found ourselves on the other side of the school, where I was supposed to be, but far from where his next class was. He laughed incredulously, and asked "What am I doing?" And I didn't know what he was doing, but I liked it.

Brushing sawdust off my shoes and peeling Elmer's glue from my fingers during Geometry class, a thousand miles away. Or more accurately, merely a class period earlier.

My voice saying his name fearlessly, watching him turn and watch me as I confessed my feelings for him. The way he turned me down, quick and painless. My hands shaking in my lap. My eyes wet from subconsciously refusing to blink. And the way that moment disappeared from his mind afterwords, like it never even happened.

I remember what it was like to wake up every morning and think to myself, "Maybe today is the day that I’ll win his heart." I remember what it was like to smile only because I was with him. I remember feeling so full, so content by his side, and all of the bad things in my life suddenly didn’t exist anymore.

And then, out of nowhere, he became one of those bad things.

Summer was an eternity. The days moved by sluggishly. Boredom reigned on all levels. Summer was the beginning of the end, and I spent every day hoping that it wouldn’t be. When it came to a close, I breezed through the doors of the school and back into a life I think I came to love before those three slow months brought everything to a screeching halt. And there I was again. Waiting for it all to start again, right where it left off.

How foolish.

"Hey, Floyd," I said breezily, as I slid into the seat behind him in my first period math class.

"Hey," he replied.

The amount of times we have spoken since that day could probably be counted on my fingers. It’s been months. And the last time I checked, I had only ten fingers.

The air outside is now brisk and empty, the kind of cold air that it hurts to breathe in. The leaves have long fallen from the trees and plastered themselves to the ground, leaving the branches to shiver in the wind. Every house shines with Christmas decorations, some artfully placed, some tacky as hell.

What happened? When did we forget how to dance on the line between friendship and more-than-friendship? Silence fills the once charged atmosphere between us. When did we become different? Did I change? Did he? He didn't seem to be different. Same flannel and jeans uniform, same witty sarcasm and talking just to hear his own voice, same curly hair and fiery eyes, doodling in notebooks, head in his hand. There was a tension in the air between us, unanswered questions.

Why isn't he talking to me?

Does she still like me?

Is he playing hard to get?

Is she ignoring me?

Or does he just not care anymore?

But after a while, even the tension went away.

And we have become nothing.

I wish I knew why.

I wish I knew the reasons why every day in study hall, he will sit less than ten feet away from me, but he will not say a word to me. He won’t even look at me anymore. I’ve become translucent. Am I even alive anymore? Or do I just go through the motions? Why do I need him like this?

I miss sitting on my Nana’s porch swing until dark, listening to the All-American Rejects and just dreaming about all of the things that couldawouldashoulda happened, and the things that I had my fingers crossed on to happen when I saw him again. A quirky fairytale, the result of mashing together a dreamer and a cynic who switched roles so much it was like they were playing musical chairs. Who played which part? I wanted it so badly. And sitting there on that porch swing, it seemed possible.

But this isn’t a good feeling anymore. This is hell. This is a loss of inspiration. This is crying my eyes out with only Metallica to comfort me. This is wanting to move on, but for some reason, it’s impossible. This is hating his guts. This is wanting to beat his brains in just as much as I want to hold him.

Is this love?

If it is, I want no part in it.