Between The Squiggles

I wonder if he thinks about me?

It feels almost ridiculous to admit this as a 31-year-old woman. Part of me wants to seem untouchable, above this kind of longing. But another part knows there’s no shame in craving the simple, human ache of wanting to be wanted.

Imagine you’re inside an elevator. The cables holding it are taut, steady, reliable, until… the moment you pull back from someone. Suddenly, the wires snap. You look ahead and see the person you like at the end of the corridor, their face already frozen in horror at what they’ve realized – long before it dawns on you. In the fraction of a second, the elevator drops.

In that split second, I vanish from his world, and he from mine.

Ugh.

Why do I have to be dramatic about this? Gross.

Probably because it’s easier to let a page absorb my weight than ask a person to.

Atleast, hey, I survived the elevator crash.