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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short essay on a short moment in the life of a confused girl. Cliche?

Submitted: September 12, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 12, 2008



You are perfect.

Everything about you is perfect.

Everything about us is perfect.


What if I had told you that you were the answer to every question I asked myself about who I wanted to be with? What if had I told you that you posses any and every characteristic I told myself I wanted from someone in a relationship? What if you consumed my thoughts to the point where I couldn’t sleep at night? What if the truth was that, when I finally did get to sleep, you were all I dreamt about? What would you say if I had said that every single song I heard reminded me of you? What if I told you that I couldn’t comprehend ever wanting to be with anyone other than you?


What if I knew you were imperfect, and the things that you did, but mostly didn’t do drove me insane, and it felt for a few seconds that you weren’t right, but that, that was what made you perfect? What then?

Would I have been perfect too?


All I wanted was the chance to prove it to you. Because I knew if I had it, I would have dispelled all your fears and apprehensions about us. I know you would have seen what I saw, and loved the imperfection of it. And for some reason, I thought I was the only person who could show you that beauty, and the potential for something to grow out of the last place you would expect it to.


But that was naïve of me. And now I see that in my desperation not to ruin it all, and lose everything we had, I disillusioned myself with ideas of imperfection that appealed to my romantic side, and I forgot to acknowledge my logical side. But, as it always does with me, logic persevered and eventually prevailed. So I guess I want to thank you for not giving me the chance to prove it all to you. Because if I had had that chance, I would have succeeded, and then eventually we both would have been hurt. And you knew that. You said so that rainy Sunday that we lay wrapped up in each other on the couch, being young and innocent and looking into each other’s eyes with uncertainty and expectation. You said so but I didn’t want to hear it. I wouldn’t listen. I figured that everyone needed to feel hurt at some point or other, but that ours would never come, because in my eagerness I could look no further than that perfect moment.


But then when you drove me home and I watched your thoughts reflected in your glasses while you tried to concentrate on the sureness of the unchanging road that was the way it was, and not subject to opinions and considerations, I felt your uncertainty creep into me like cold air through an old jersey. I didn’t want to feel it, so I convinced myself that it was just you being your usual, indecisive and overly thoughtful self, but there was always a nagging at the back of my mind reminding me to step out of my precious illusion and consider the fact that you could have a point.


Being as stubborn as I am, I ignored it. Being as stubborn as you are, you didn’t. The conflict of our combined stubbornness lead to the inevitable hurt you had promised, and I had denied. It broke my heart in a way that I had no right to let it, because the truth of it is that we’re just two strangers whose lives crossed for a beautiful, fleeting moment.

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