Ordinary Lives

prologue.

What do you know about the girl next door?

You know that it's a cliche. Everyone knows it's a cliche. Frankly, going on and on about the cliche-ness of the girl next door is a cliche in itself.

But what else do you know?

Maybe you know that being a girl next door demands feeling soul-crushingly invisible in the eyes of the only person you've ever wanted to truly see you. Or that, for some reason, a girl next door always has some masochistic affinity for falling head over heels for the most handsome person in their entire social circle, a person in a league bounds away from their own. And maybe you're sympathetically aware of the girl next door and how she never seems to hold up to her counterparts- whether that be her sister, her best friend, her trope-fulfilling arch nemesis. One of them's always got something better, and she's stuck living the rest of her days as the definition of the word plain.

You probably know all of these things.

But none of you have ever lived them.

Cliches stem from reality, after all- and the unfortunate luck required to live out this certain stereotype fell onto me. I've experienced first hand, not just vicariously through the pages of a poorly written novel, the feeling of being so close yet so undeniably unworthy of even noticing. Maybe it would have turned out different for me, if I hadn't fooled myself into thinking I stood any sort of chance. Living right next door to someone so cosmically rapturing, you gain a false sense of hope that keeps you up at night and stimulates your bizarre imagination into thinking that pure proximity might mean you too could be a celestial body, worthy of the person that resembled the sun living right next door. You think about how if they, just one, glance back your way and really look, they would see something that had always been there. That you have quietly been existing as the person they've needed in their life all along and all they had to do is notice- because the girl next door is the love of his fantastic life. The woman of his dreams.

But that's only what you think. And it's never what actually happens. Not in the real world. The harsh truth I came to terms with is that I would always be the one who kept on wishing, hoping, and praying for something that was nothing more than a fantasy. I was never going to be one of those girls people read about- the one that went home with him everyday, to his perfect mother waiting at home for us with after-school smoothies and a knowing smile, seeing how in love we were in a way we couldn't; the one he wrote soul-baring songs about, lyrics painting a picture detailing how much he loves the curve of my lips and the way my hair curls after I've just had a shower; the one he woke up and went to bed thinking about.

Our moms were better friends than we were for crying out loud. And how long had we known each other for? He knew me peripherally, the way you know a 16-wheeler is in the lane next to you on the highway without ever actually setting your eyes on them. I was barely on his radar- the only reason I was on their at all is because you always unintentionally end up retaining some information when your parents have their repetitive and mundane chats about inviting the neighbors over for dinner.

I was so close to getting over my foolishness on so many accounts. A drought of seeing him for a few days, some attention from the waiter at the tea place who's hopelessly in love with me, and I would find the strength to push my feelings for him into hibernation for a good bit. And then, sometimes, when we'd happen to be outside at the same time (him grabbing the mail, me hiding from my dad), I'd catch him glance at me. This made me wonder if he'd approach me. I'd notice him staring at me and conveniently ignore it was only because I was doing it first. My hibernation would be broken, and I'd be left basking in the shame of my own weirdness.

Timmy Chalamet.

He existed. I pined.

More than a classic boy next door paired with someone nothing more than the girl next door. A girl who pathetically devoted the entirety of her formative years wishing for a glance.

But could anyone blame me? It was the kind of boy he was. Designed for people to fall in love with. Fluent in french. A MENSA level IQ. Sharp wit mixed with a good nature. Love for songs ranging from Velvet Underground to Kanye West. Dark curly hair framing his face as if his body knew on some sort of genetic level that he was meant to be an artist. How could I not be impossibly enamored?

And yet Timmy was also the kind of guy who would trick you. Who would cruelly prevent you from ever getting a sense of place or where you stood with him- so when you thought you were important to him, you'd realize how far off you were from the truth.

I know this from first hand experience. Because I wasn't only ever just the girl next door. I've been heartbroken. Cheated. Hurt.

But he gets to continue living his life having been the object of a love so profound it could have shaken this earth. And I am still here wishing it was returned.