Female Gaze

01 | rose-colored glasses

BRIE

          I don't know what it is about my stupid, dumb heart that makes it so appealing for people to break it, but I'm tired of repeatedly finding myself in this situation.

          See, I have this annoying tendency to be far too trusting, too naive, and it often gets me in trouble. I don't know if the big heart that is seen as a good thing by my family ("you're such a good girl, Brie, with such a giant heart," they all say. "Don't ever let anyone take that away from you!") is the main reason why I constantly land myself in heartbreaking situations or if it exclusively attracts guys whose goal is to lead me on for months.

          I always believe in the best parts of people, even when their entire existence is a huge, huge red flag, but it's like my rose-colored glasses prevent me from determining the color of the flag until it's too late. Even after the inevitable heartbreak, something I always attempt to brace myself for and have yet to learn how to cope with, my first instinct is to try and justify it. The red flags aren't that red; surely there's still something I can salvage.

          Needless to say, I'm not one to learn from my mistakes, but it just makes it easier to realize I'm the problem here. Relationship after relationship, breakup after breakup, heartbreak after heartbreak—I'm the one who always stays. I'm the common denominator.

          Blaming myself for the inevitable downfall of every relationship I get into would be a lot more helpful if I was actually working on improving the person I turn into whenever I'm seeing someone—clingy, needy, obsessive—but, after a while of trying to be someone I'm not, I grow comfortable and fall back into my old habits. Guys get tired of me, and then they leave. Rinse, repeat.

          I thought Cole would be different. I think that's why it hurts a lot more when his hand breaks through the barrier of my ribs, rips my heart out of my chest, and throws it to the floor of the campus café just to stomp all over it. He doesn't even bother cleaning up; it's just me picking up the pieces and attempting to put them back together. The cracks are wider and bigger than ever.

          I blink the tears away from my eyes and the sight of him, so beautifully cruel, becomes clearer. "Why?"

          Cole grimaces, hair so blonde it looks white whenever the late summer sunlight brushes against it. "I think it's one of those times when a relationship has just . . . run its course, you know? We're about to graduate—"

          "We've been back to college for three days, Cole," I correct, through gritted teeth. I want so badly to be one of those people who manage to hold back their tears whenever they're angry, but I'm not, and it just makes me look like an even bigger overemotional fool.

          I'm livid.

          There's boiling hot lava coursing through my bloodstream, scorching my body from the inside, and there could very well be smoke coming out of my ears (and yes, I've heard all the jokes about fiery redheads). However, since there are these stupid tears stinging the corners of my eyes, he has yet another argument going for him, one he can use to further the narrative where I'm crazy and obsessive and so sensitive.