02 | delusional? me?

I was weirded out if I'm honest.

My parents agreed to let me go on a class trip to a waterfall that was an hour out of town. It was in September, I think? I'm just aware that it was before fall break in October.

Anyway, the whole thing was still weird because one: I had never slept even a night where one of my parents wasn't near and two: they had never given me permission to sleep somewhere else before. Except for that one time in Pakistan where they had given me permission to sleep at my Nani's house when I visited Pakistan, but that was many years ago.

I had never gone on any sleepovers before with my friends and suddenly I was allowed to go on a class trip for an entire night. So weird.

Plus, Johannes was going to be there. It . . . it sounded amazing to me.

We had three big tents only, though. One for the girls, one for the boys and one mixed. Which was extremely odd, but I didn't say anything. The whole "some girls and some boys" sharing sounded really odd. My parents, however, had called my teacher and specifically said that I couldn't share a tent with boys. Of course they did. I was annoyed, but I needed to know my limits. They had trusted me. I liked that they trusted me.

So, I wasn't allowed to share tents, but Johannes being Johannes and Bianca being Bianca, along with a few other girls and boys (your friend Fred and an old crush of mine being two of them), were now seven people and they were going to be sharing tents. I felt like an outsider with my own friends, though, who were in the mixed tents.

It was upsetting, but I let it be.

There isn't much to say about that.

Bianca and Johannes were attached to each others hips during the trip, and my heart broke so much, but I didn't say anything. 

(I mean, she knows I'm into him. She has listened to me ranting about him, but she seems to be doing this in front of me like I don't really matter.)

What I did, though, was to rant to Christine. My old best friend. I miss her sometimes. She listened even if we weren't so close anymore (because I catfished her and a few other people) and comforted me while everyone was around the fireplace and we were at the side, me crying.

I don't think I need to tell why Christine and I talk so comfortably. It's complicated. We were mutuals, but not friends. She doesn't hate me and I don't hate her for what happened.

She told me she understood why I'm so upset about Bianca and Johannes. It's nice being understood. But she also asked why I liked Johannes. He was an asshole towards me and she'd seen it since day one when I moved to this town four years ago. I did not answer her question because I didn't know myself.

If I were to describe Bianca and Johannes' relationship, I'd have to say it was intimate. They hugged a lot, talked a lot and they often leaned at each other. Fourteen year old me believed this was extremely intimate, and fifteen year old me is embarrassed by that.

What constantly bothered me, though, was the way Johannes looked at me when he was supposed to focus on Bianca. They would be hugging or doing something that was extremely couple-y, but he stared at me. His gaze was always unreadable every time. I'm not sure. It was just filled with something that made me feel funny in my stomach.

Whatever it was, it was hot. I hated how he always sent me that look when he was around Bianca.

Made me feel jealous and I'm not really the jealous type. He always brought out the terrible emotions in me. Emotions that didn't even exist before he made them come forward.

I realized then and there that I was in love with him. I was hopelessly, madly, awfully in love with him. I was in love with the boy I'd called rude comments for years and years. Who I had tripped on purpose during a soccer match under a recess in sixth grade because he annoyed the hell out of me. Who I had called a fucking bitch in eight because he was mocking me once.

A few out of many instances.

Suddenly those things stopped. Seeing him trip on the soccer field during his matches I came to (I've told myself it wasn't for him but for moral support for our soccer club that I was also a part of), made me want to remove that frown and kiss that scratch he'd gotten. I liked when he annoyed me because it meant I could talk to him even if it was me insulting him throughout most of it.

Healthy? Probably not.

What irked me, was how Bianca never showed up to these matches. She never came to watch her supposed best friend, as she called him, never saw him score all those goals. Never saw him being the greatest. I did, though.

Why couldn't I be a choice?

I was in love with him. So, so in love with him. I can't even explain it. Everything he did was great in my eyes. 

I think he knows I like him. Bianca probably told him, probably wanting to make fun of me. They probably had a good laugh over it. Probably, probably, probably, probably.

I guess that's why he looks at me funnily when he's with Bianca. It's because he knows.

God, even writing this down irks me in the worst way possible. You're probably having a good laugh too while reading this. It's the kind of person you are with me.

You laugh when I'm hurting, you bring out the comedy in my situations. It's a good tactic, but I don't always think it's fun. I don't even like how you use that as a tactic. I just wished you'd be see-through for once. To drop the mysterious act. It was fooling everyone—even me.

I rant to you, and you listen and you say something witty mixed with something comforting.

I say something insulting to you, and you say something hurtful right back. They get out of line sometimes, and Anette takes your side every time because she said she's in love with you.

We banter a lot nowadays. I love our bants, they're funny. I don't like it as much when you comment the hair on my legs and arms, though. Or the one in between my eyebrows for that matter. It's not my fault I was born this way.

My mom told me I was too young to start tweezing and shaving yet. Wait another year. I said ok.

It's not my fault I don't look like Bianca. I want to, trust me, I want to, but I can't. I want to be pretty too. I don't like looking like this. I don't like my skin color or eye color sometimes, but it's what I have and I have to deal with, regardless of how everything is the way it is.

God, I wish I was pretty.

Yours truly.