#oddcrush

I respond that I feel the same way. I don’t say that I’ve been waiting years for this. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It doesn’t matter at all.

What does matter is that the planets aligned and you’re texting me at two a.m. and I’m still awake enough to respond. I’m high and emotional and terrified. I’m so fucking terrified. I can’t risk losing you. But what’s reward without risk, right?

So she’ll stab me in the back and my brother won’t approve. It’s going to be messy. Your mother loves me. We’re going to make mistakes. We’re going to fight and bicker and never go to bed angry. I’m ready for this. I’m ready for this with you.

Social media has eaten me alive and spit me back out. And I still crave that validation more than anything. I care about being liked too much. I obsessively refresh apps - Spotify, Instagram, Tumblr - and watch the numbers. I measure my self-worth in follows. No one followed me today. Am I less likable?

Did someone reblog my poetry? No? I’ll write a better poem. I won’t erase the old one to make a point. Make it seem like I don’t care about notes when those notes matter more to me than what I’ve written. Make it relatable. Try to be likable.

I deleted friends off of my personal Facebook without thinking twice. I stared at my professional Facebook, overflowing with strangers, and didn’t delete a single one. I stared at my page and looked at the analytics. Engagement down 8%. Why? What did I post that people didn’t care about? Am I likable still?

I don’t want to care about being likable. I don’t want to care about others’ opinions of me. I don’t want to care about if someone unliked my Facebook page or unsubscribed from my mailing list.

But I obsess. Don’t we all? What’s the first thing you do when you open your phone: texts or social media? I wake up and immediately base my perception of myself for the day based on how many notifications I have. If I’ll be likable that day.

We are so self-absorbed in trying not to be self-absorbed. But it’s not something to be personally ashamed of - society has pushed us to post everything everywhere and only backtrack when you’re close to being canceled. Rate your body on a scale from 1 to 10 and compare it to the Kardashian you just saw. Count your calories today - resist eating above 800. Wear sunglasses because you don’t feel like putting lashes on. Hide in your house because your roots are showing. Look likable.

We talk about the younger generations being shallow because they care about their looks. But they’re not shallow - they’re trying to fit in. Be included in a group at lunch. Have a good relationship with your coworker. Go through friends like a Rolodex and have your heart ripped out each time you wonder if you’re acting likable enough to deserve finding new ones.

Being likable is desired. Revered. Dreamt about. But we are multi-faceted. We are not made to be likable. We are made to be strong. Courageous. Brave. Happy. Smart. Creative. Kind. We are made to be more than a like. We are made to change the world and make connections with other humans.

We are more than comments and follows. We are inherently likable. No subscription needed.

It’s been four years since the idea of you was burned in my brain. Four years of niceties and random conversations here and there. Four years of other people and miles and miles between us.

But now it’s Friday, and we’re in the back of your car, and the windows are fogging up, and I can’t help but laugh at how the universe works. Because after four years, we’re finally getting it right.

I pause and look at you, still struggling with your shirt - really, who thought buttons were a good idea? - and feel my heart in my throat. So this is it. This is you and me and four years in one moment.

I close my eyes and make a wish to remember all of it.

and shook my hand

and that was it.

Seventeen frappuccinos in

and I know I’m falling.

It went from quick hand-offs

to three-hour stays

just because we occasionally caught eyes

and the butterflies in my stomach came to life

each time you asked me a question

or lingered by me a second too long.

Now,

you walk me down the block to my apartment.

You don’t try to kiss me.

You don’t try to force your way into my apartment.

You hand me my groceries

that you carried for me because they were heavy

and say you’ll see me next time

and then hurry to catch your bus

in the opposite direction.

And for once,

I don’t want to rush.

I don’t need to know what we are

I don’t need to meet your mother.

I just want to know if you think this is a flower worth watering, too

If you want to wish upon the same star.

And if you do,

say so

Because I think

you’re one of the best decisions

I could make

and I don’t make them that often.

“Baby,” you say, voice low and even. “Paradise is any place I’m with you.”