I Capital L Love You

spilled my guts

February 12th
Dear Oliver,

     Well, the first major event of junior year was your breakup with Meredith. And to be honest, Lyssa and I totally saw it coming. However, you didn't seem to sense its arrival and were very vague when I asked about it. My silly, Love-struck brain thought it had something to do with me. And there was just cause to believe so – our entire relationship changed during the previous summer.

     I was beyond excited. There was finally a chance for me to spill my guts (figuratively). Teen angst, a dying mother, and the too-perfect girlfriend were not in my way anymore. Seventeen-year-old Soapy finally decided to put her big girl panties on and confront you. (Yay!!)

     I spilled my guts... in a literal sense.

     The sushi my family ate the previous night in combination with my nerves and the spoiled milk I poured into my cereal for breakfast made me sick. And if that weren't bad enough, the wonderful liquid came out all over your brand new white shoes. Of course, you already know that I ruined your two-hundred-dollar shoes, but you don't know the full story, Oliver.

     I told you it was a stomach bug, but it was food poisoning and nerves. What a perfect storm.

     And that was the billionth attempt of me failing to tell you about my Love for you.

     I still cannot believe that there were so many failed attempts. It makes me wonder if the universe had some vendetta against us – well, against me.

     Whenever I had a plan, something had to conveniently show up and ruin everything. Exhibit A: puking. Exhibit B: your mom's sickness. Exhibit C: you friend-zoning me in freshman year. I can go on and on with at least ten more things that ruined my plans.

     That also makes me wonder if the same thing happened to you. If you felt the same way in high school, did you ever have a plan to tell me? Were your plans foiled? Could something have happened with us if my luck wasn't so shitty?

     And all these years later, I'm coming to realize that at the end of the day, we only regret the chances we didn't take. There were so many opportunities for me to confess my Love that would not have been ruined – I will always regret not jumping on them.

     So if anyone finds this journal (which I sincerely hope doesn't happen), don't be afraid to step out of your comfort zone and live life. In a few years, you're going to regret not asking that boy or girl to hang out. You're going to regret not going to that concert with your friends, and you will definitely regret staying home in your bedroom each night. You're never going to regret something you did; even if it turns out to be a disaster, you'll just have another fun story to tell.

     Enough rambling speeches. Back to why I didn't tell you.

     After I puked on your shoes, there were obviously more pressing matters than telling you about my Love. We had to get it cleaned up, and then I got sent home from school because the nurse feared a virus spreading around the student body.

     So why didn't I tell you after school or a few days later?

     Nervousness.

     After so many fails, I was worried that I would fuck up again. I was also worried that you'd reject me.

With each fail, it got worse. I kept building the event up in my mind, and it became a bigger deal than it should have been. Overthinking is the biggest bitch.

I decided to play it safe and see if things between us heated up. (Fast forward, and our friendship ended up plateauing. We continued being friendly, but it didn't escalate to couple-friendly).

     And to this day, I still regret not taking the chance to tell you. If I had just gone down that road instead of taking the familiar one, everything today would be different. I wish I had blurted it out before you publicly told Marina Johnston that you, "Aren't interested in having a girlfriend today, tomorrow, or ever."

     My confidence plummeted, and I vowed to not tell you until your mindset changed. (Surprise! It was a long while before your mindset changed).

     Lyssa was furious with me for that. She said that my mindset needed to change, not yours. I needed to be the one to change and not be so scared anymore. Now, I know what she was right, but seventeen-year-old Sophie did not. Seventeen-year-old Sophie was an idiot, but I think I've already established that.

     A time machine would really come in handy right about now.

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