"... And I love him. Though I hate that word, because I don't think it truly encapsulates how I really feel about him. The way I love him is not the way I love the weather, or video games, or the dog I saw on the street. But I do, love him."
In whic...
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BEATRICE (@busybee)
I fell in love with Michelle Kim when I was a teenager. Or maybe it was before then, and I had only realized it when we reached high school.
Michelle and I grew up together, in the rough streets of Brooklyn, New York. We grew up just outside Brownsville, which was known as one of the poorest neighbourhoods in the city. It wasn't the nicest place, and it was often terrifying to walk through after sunset.
Despite all the ruckus in my family household, Michelle was my escape. I went to them for anything and everything, and they were the only person I felt that comfort with. She lived only a few houses away from mine, and whenever shit went down, all I had to do was walk less than two minutes to reach her. I don't think I've trusted anyone the way I trusted her.
I loved Michelle before I knew what love was. Perhaps I should have realized beforehand that I viewed them in a way that was deeper than that of a friend, or even a best friend.
She was the one who made me realize I was queer, and because of her, I saw potential in being with a girl. And they liked me too, I think. It was hard to tell at the time.
Michelle and I dated for only a year, depending on who you asked. It was kind of rough before we began dating— they didn't want to start a relationship and risk the friendship we had together. I was offended and took that as rejection, since out of everything in my life, Michelle was the only thing I felt sure about. Their rejection felt like hesitation, and I never wanted my partner to hesitate in choosing me.
I chose Michelle over everything, and maybe that was my first mistake.
After a few years of on-and-off fighting, kissing, and ignoring, we became a couple. However, a year passes by quickly, and our teenage romance was short-lived. When it was time to graduate and move onto university, I should have known it was the end of us. The end of Beatrice and Michelle, the two girls who had barely begun.
They had the tendency to text me once every few months, sometimes a year. And I had the tendency to reciprocate. Despite the fact that it always ended in pain, I craved it— the love we never got to share. And sometimes it felt good — really, fucking good — to forget. To act like we were simply two girls, who were in love.
But it was never that simple.
You can grow out of people the same way you grow out of clothes. I had something with Michelle, but it was like constantly holding on a dead end. I didn't know how to move past it this time.
Staring at the ceiling of my room, I heard the faint blaring of my alarm. I felt the pounding of my head practically matching to the beat of the ring. Turning my head in the slightest, I winced at the pain and realized it wasn't an alarm.
It was George.
Why was George calling me at 5:30 in the fucking morning?
"What?" I groggily answered, putting my phone on speaker and not bothering to move.
