Meliorism

Pale Boy

It was the afternoon. The rain was gently tapping on the roof of the bus. You hate the rain. You always used to tell me you couldn’t stand it. Three days after you came to my knowing, you asked why it always had to rain, as if I knew. I’d try to answer your questions with witty comebacks, but that one about the rain, I answered seriously.

“It just does,” I said, facing you and smiling. “It just has to rain.” Like my love for you—it just is.

You laughed as a form of response. When you laugh, you cover your mouth with your fist because you think your mouth looks horrible—the sides reach out to your ears, your front teeth pointy. But, no, your mouth—your smile—doesn’t look horrible. Your smile makes me happy, Pale Boy. You’re my pale boy, Pale Boy.

I’d just met you a couple of days ago, but already it felt like I’d known you for years. You knew how to familiarize yourself with situations. It didn’t take a while for you to familiarize yourself with my situation—it took a fucking day, to be exact. Just see how proficient you are in making connections with people. You’re also proficient in burning bridges, but we’ll get to that.

You laughed at my jokes and didn’t care about how young I was. To you, I was me. To me, you were you. It’s always hard to see your way out when it comes to this kind of situation. We both knew there was a connection. It was a feeling that didn’t have to be mutual; it just had to be felt.

On the fourth day, I was already comfortable sitting beside you. I’d get on the bus and you’d be waiting, your arms far outstretched. You’d reach your hand out for me to high-five, and I’d be truly, genuinely happy. Our friendship wasn’t really a friendship. It was nothing more than a thing. I’m still not sure what you thought of me back then, but I do know that you did enjoy having those late-afternoon conversations with me. There was this smile plastered on your face.

It stayed like that for two more weeks.

Then you found out that I liked you. You burned the bridge then, Pale Boy—right after you found out, right after I told you. I hate the fact that your bridge-burning’s almost always an impulse.

You weren’t talking to me. You wouldn’t even fucking stare at me. I’d catch you stealing glances, but they were glances of mere repulsion. I know how it works. You find out someone like me likes you, you get disgusted. Fuck you. I love you, and this is what I get. Fucker.

But still, for some reason, I love you. I hate that my love for you is almost always an impulse.

So instead, as a sort of consolation to myself, I’d talk to you through anonymous messages, and then we’d play the Guess-Who-I-Am game, but then you’d get bored, so I’d have to tell you who I am: I am the lost boy who likes you, the boy who refuses and refuses but eventually transgresses. You’d notice the transgression and you’d hate it, so you’d tell me to stay away.

Now we’re stuck in this situation—no, I’m stuck. You don’t really care, do you? You won’t even help me. I told you to help me fix myself, and you said you would, but you never really did.

All you’re leaving me with is more questions.