What We Didn't Tell Each Other

- preface: significant moment -

Here we were again, standing where we always did -- the hallway. The hallway of a college in which we stood so many times before. The exact place where I got rejected so many times. This place. How could I forget when the memory is engraved in my mind like it just happened yesterday? A new semester but the same deja vu image remains where it does. He was, also, standing in front of me where our spot is in the corner of a hall. A poster hung behind me about some upcoming event. I tried to look past him, like I was more interested in the room number next to him than I was in his face. This was a struggle of course because how could you hide something that was so evidently there?

"You can't be with him," he whispered softly, tilting his head to put near my ear.

I was able to feel his breath and it sent a warmth across my body. "Why not?" I challenged. I wanted to fight as much as it killed me to do so, I wanted to get him angry...to feel something towards me—good or bad. I needed a reaction. An expression. Anything. Anything to let me know that he knew I was human, that I always would be and I couldn't get any stronger than the capacity within me.

He stuttered and his breath wavered near me ear. "Be-because...you barely know him. He barely knows you." He paused. "You'll...you'll get hurt."

"Again...." I whispered and hoped that he knew I was talking about him. I continue by saying, "So what?" Why does it matter to you? I bit my tongue from saying.

He thought about it for a second. He brought his head up and his face to look straight into mine. "He'll leave you." I saw his lip tremble or maybe I blinked and created an illusion I desired to see. "He barely knows you," he repeated like it would make much difference. Like it would save the world from blowing up if it were to at that very moment.

I scoffed. "You knew me. You still left." I choked back a lump in my throat. "You knew me, but you...still left." I breathed in and out. "Why's that? Did you not know me enough?" I whispered hoarsely. I ripped my glance away from his and pretended like fiddling with my fingers was something to glow about, like playing with my fingers was a hobby that'll never get old.

"Be...because"—he brought my chin up and directed my gaze to his—"I knew you too well. I knew you too much."

My tears welled up and I forcefully pulled my face away from his touch. "Was that bad?" I asked defensively. "Was it a crime?" I spat.

"No. Not bad, not a crime. Just a bit...dangerous, in a way, I guess."

"How so?"

I glanced up. He looked away. My heart started to beat faster at that moment. I knew what this meant. I knew what happened next. Every time he looked away, he walked away. "I have to go," he finally said. He began to walk away with his head down, hands in jean pockets, and hair over his eyes. He had done this too many times. Too many unforgivable times that I hate myself for forgiving so many unforgivable times. I was pissed at that moment. I was hurt, how could I not be? I couldn't let him get away as I had so many mistakable times. This time was different, it was supposed to be. And I was about to make it different. This time I got him where I wanted; he was telling me the brutal truth and that's how I wanted it. Brutally, cruelly, honestly honest.

I jumped forward and grabbed his wrist. "Please don't go," I said unintentionally, the first thing that came to mind and slipped through my mouth. I was weak but that's what he often made me feel. Or maybe it was just vulnerability -- not weakness. He brought out what was on the inside to the outside...and, I guess, that was part of the addiction off the high of love I felt towards him. "I...miss you." I felt as if though I had lost control. I wanted him talking, not me confessing. Everything was going how I had hoped for it not to go; me doing what I dreadfully wanted not to do. Confess. Open up. Let my guard down when I had done so well to build it up.

"No you don't. You only tell yourself that. You only want to think you miss and want me. You don't," he said.

"I don't or you don't?"

"There you go again." He scoffed. "Manipulating the art of 'expression' and trying to answer my question with a question." He rolled his eyes.

"What can I say?" I said. "I try to be a poet and you're my inspiration, so...inspire me?" I attempted saying smoothly without question but accidentally phrased as a question. Brilliant, I thought. Make it seem like you're incompetent. I sighed.

He smiled and I thought I heard him stifle a laugh. Suddenly, his face went solemn, but in a manner that I knew he was going to say something honest in a stupidly intelligent way to mock me. "I am an inspiration as much as I am human. You don't need me for anything. You are your own inspiration; you told me before that you 'find inspiration in the most unexpected places, why can't you see?'"

I released his wrist. There was no use to holding onto something that would only end up slipping, every single time. No use to holding onto something that would not hold back -- it was like trying to grasp to catch air with your hands, or trying to grab water with a net, or trying to extinguish fire by adding more fuel. It was like trying to help a person who can't breathe by filling their lungs with water. "I can't see, can't you see?" I said. "I can't see because you've blinded me with false hope and memories that I've only been carrying like faded pictures."

He coughed, shook his head, and said, "Poets are artists. Paint yourself new pictures, create a new masterpiece. Don't trace over the old—it becomes unoriginal. Create a new masterpiece or something and wow the art critics," he stated almost sarcastically, but then he gently ran his thumb quickly across my jaw and brought his hand back to his side. He walked off.

"I hate you...." I muttered. "Not you. I hate me for loving you," I finished guiltily.

Over his shoulder, he threw out, "But, please. Not him. Of all the guys you had choices from, not him."

"Why not?" I clenched my jaw and my teeth tightened.

He stopped in his tracks and turned to me, walking back. "Like I said before, he barely fucking knows you!" His voice raised and my heart elevated. Then his expression and tone softened and he finished, "Not the way he should." He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear and a chill ran down my spine to my toe.

"Well, maybe the best romances start that way."

"Name one." He dared.

"Romeo and Juliet. They barely knew each other," I said. "Love at first sight"

He laughed. "That's a fiction." He shook his head. "Give me something more real."

"The Notebook." I shrugged. "Another love at first sight."

He shook his head again. "Another story book, a Hollywood movie. Give me something more realistic."

I looked him dead in the eyes. "How about 'you and me'?"

I saw him swallow. "Tell me about that one."

"Let's just say the story's not ending how the characters wished."

He nodded this time. "I don't like this one. How about you make a new story?"

I looked away. "I'm working on it." I nodded. "I'm really trying as best as I can."

"How's that going for you?"

"Let's just say my Romeo hasn't arrived and my Noah is lost somewhere in the world," I replied, using the characters from Romeo and Juliet and The Notebook. "But I get it, I'm as useless as a white crayon, that's why you don't want me," I said stupidly, trying to metaphor a concept that would make sense but that just seemed senseless.

He was quiet for a moment and what seemed like a flash of hurt sped through his eyes and just as soon as it appeared, it disappeared when he blinked. "Then maybe," he said, "you just have to wait until you find someone who prefers black paper." With that, he walked away and this time I didn't stop him. What more was there to say? I couldn't do anything to stop him from playing the game I was so lamely losing.