i'd go anywhere with you

stupid, beating, wretched heart; a short story

I say goodnight. No response back-all you had said before that was that you were going to bed. After I close the app, I'm listless as I go through the steps of aftercare for my belly piercing. The pain from the piercing stings, but the more prominent pain is the deep pangs in my chest. I force myself to power through the sting of the saline solution, trying to convince myself the tears in the back of my eyes are from the solution and not from my feeling utterly lost.

That one part of your message just repeats itself in my head. You know the one. It repeats, like a scratched record over and over and over and over and over and over and overandoverandover again and I can't take it so I try to forget but nothing distracts me from the incessant repetition and I'm desperate to make it stop but I can't because when you sent that-my heart sank.

I release a breath, trying to ease the ache in my chest from my heart. My heart-my ugly, bruised, beat up, but still beating for you heart. Because I only wanted to help you. Because I stupidly care so deeply about a man whose last name I don't even know. Because we've shared our fears, guilty pleasures, deep desires, love of artistry, and everything in between, and I feel like I've known you forever. Because seeing you hurt and sad made me want to do anything I could to help you. Because you're you and you're great and you don't see yourself the way I see you.

But maybe that's the problem. Maybe I always saw you through rose-tinted glasses. The cooler, older man I met online who teaches me about so many things. The one who makes me feel desired. The one who was my first ever sexual relationship. The one who really, is my friend above all else. That's who you are, to me. But who am I, to you?

It might be that chatty, bright-eyed younger girl you met online who makes you feel good. The one who sends you photos and messages that turn you on. The one who debates with you about any topic under the sun. The one that you think is smart and beautiful, and will make a great doctor one day. The one who cares so deeply about you that she'd take all of your sadness for herself if she could-because she cares about you as a person, as a friend, above all else.

Or is this all just entertainment for you? Am I the hot, barely legal teen who tells you that you make her come? Is the forbiddenness of it all what keeps you talking to me? My body that you love so much? My beauty, my youth? Do you take me seriously? Do you care about me when I'm not hot for you or bubbly or silly-but rather, when I'm angry? Sad? When I'm angry and sad? When I'm angry and sad because of you?

I ask these questions because I'm lost. What could you possibly gain from talking to me? What can I offer you? There are more than enough 18 and 19 year old girls who could send you more revealing photos-hell, nude pics. Why do you care about me? Do you care about me? You've never told me so explicitly. You act like you do, so sometimes I think you do, but then your occasional flippant disregard for me and my thoughts are jarring.

I can't tell you any of this though. We're not dating, we're not exclusive. We don't know each other's last names, we've never spoken on the phone and yet I've sobbed, gut-wrenchingly so, over you more times than I'd like to admit. You said you wouldn't ruin me, but I already feel myself shattering to pieces, all because of you. And that wouldn't even be entirely your fault, either. Just me and my stupid, beating, wretched, heart-caring too much again.

Before I go to bed, I'll check for the hundredth time to see if you'll say goodnight back. Deep inside, I know you're fast asleep, likely caught up in the dream world. I'm here on Earth-we're universes apart.