I hate this. I hate every little thing I see that reminds me we’re not together. I hate the fact that they push me towards believing that this might be a permanent state of affairs. We talk and spend time together and I get optimistic because it works so well. But then any slight mention of “us” and you tell me to stop. I don’t know what to do. Somehow I’m meant to keep this all to myself. But if I do, I worry you’ll forget how I feel. I worry that you’ll forget and move on and not even consider me. All that’s happened makes me worry that maybe what we had wasn’t as strong as I thought.

I’m pretty sure I’m not right and these worries are unforunded, but I can’t help it. This situation just makes me paranoid. I can be as romantic and optimistic as I want, but that’ll never be a proper substitute for us actually being together. I love being your friend and it’d be hell if I weren’t, but I can’t help but spend every moment wishing it were more.

I think about you almost constantly, you know. It used to make me smile. Now I’m not sure what to do.

So, you meet someone. This is someone who you get along with. But not just in the usual way. You don’t just have things in common or have pleasant conversations. This person complements you so well. Spending time with them is all you ever want to do. They make you laugh whenever you’re with them. They make you smile even when they’re not there. They complain about how bad they look and you can’t understand it as they always look so beautiful to you. They bitch and complain and have bad moods and you just smile a little and give them a hug. This is someone you want to include in everything you do. No matter how amazing your life is, it’s not good enough if they’re not experiencing it with you.

And this person inexplicably feels the same about you. They’ve seen all your flaws and know every crack in your personality and they’re still there.

But then, you get a little paranoid. You can’t quite believe your life could be this good. You can’t believe that this person you hold in such high regard could really wish to be part of your life. You start thinking that they’ll forget you somehow. That one day they’ll wake up and realise that they’ve made a mistake. You think maybe they’ll decide someone else is better for them than you.

So you try to keep hold of them. You remind them of how you feel as much as you can. You’re on the lookout for anything that might steal them away. Anything that might end this. You grip too hard and you become what you’ve been scared of all along. You scare them and end up pushing them away. They still feel the same and know you do too and it upsets them and it’s not what they want but it has to be done.

And so you just worry even more. But you know about the mistake you’ve made now. You know what you did wrong. But you can’t fix things immediately and make them right. Instead you have to wait for them to decide what’s going on. And while that’s happening, you have to hide all the paranoia and insecurities and worrying from them. It’s worse than it was before and you have to control it even more. So you put it elsewhere. You put it somewhere that they won’t see it.

I love you, Bethan.

I can’t write any more. I’m a weird kind of perfectionist. I can’t simply make sketches and evolve them and gradually make my way to something great. I want it to be perfect first time. I sit there, staring at a blank page, getting nothing down as I can’t think of anything great. I maybe get a couple of lines that I like, but then I abandon them because I can’t carry on at that level. Any thoughts I have just aren’t good enough and remain trapped in me. This doesn’t help when I need to write. I need to get my feelings out. I need to put them elsewhere so I don’t dwell on them. I need to display my emotions to the world so they can choose to deal with them or not and have it not be my decision. Great things used to be created from my bad experiences and it made them not so bad. Now I just have the bad experiences and then can’t do anything and it just gets worse. I sit there, not only worrying about what’s gone wrong, but worrying about the fact I can’t write. I need this to change. I need to create again.

A picture hung above the fireplace. It was rather damaged from many years of hanging above long winter nights warmed by burning logs. The people in it had been rendered somewhat expressionless by the years. The beginnings of a rather bland cheese sandwich lay waiting on the kitchen counter. Oliver searched the kitchen drawers for a knife suitable for cheese-cutting, but came up empty handed. He contemplated attempting to use a butter knife, but resolved instead to simply discard the bread and chew the lump of cheese. He was suddenly struck by an idea and grabbed a jar of pickle from the fridge. He discovered that dipping the cheese in it was not quite the taste sensation he had hoped for, but at least made it somewhat less bland. He chewed his cheese as he looked up at the picture above the fireplace. He wondered if he should be thinking of something more deep and complex than how cheese dipped in pickle tasted, but really couldn’t think of what that should be. The cheese was soon finished and he went in search of something to remove the dry flavour of mature cheddar from his mouth. He found nothing and simply drank the pickle instead.

There was a number of things I needed to tell her. As she talked, I sat there wondering how to say them. Wondering if she already knew. Wondering if any of them would make a difference. I tried to maintain eye-contact, but it felt uncomfortable. My eyes began to wander and I watched her lips as she spoke. I wondered if a simple kiss would make any of it better. It seemed unlikely. It seemed likely that she’d merely reject any attempt at a kiss. I wasn’t really sure what effect her words should be having on me. I knew how I felt, but I wasn’t sure if that were right. I wasn’t sure if I was acting in the right manner. Whether I should be coming across as reacting differently to what she was saying. The things I’d planned to say were beginning to slip out of my head. I tried to grasp at them but it was ineffectual and seemed rather pointless in the face of her extended monologues. I struggled to decide whether should actually say anything. Whether my input was required and whether it would really make a difference.  I ended up simply nodding as she carried on. I don’t think I cam off well.

Katherine was sitting on the balcony. The stars were dim tonight. Gazing at them was proving problematic and she frowned at this. She directed her gaze to the city below, the expanse of it spread out beneath the hill her house perched upon. She frowned at it too. She wasn’t entirely sure it was responsible for the lack of stares, but she felt it should feel ashamed anyway. She shifted her weight off her left foot, feeling relief as it relaxed. She’d been out here for a while and still nothing had happened. She’d decided to come out because it had felt like an important night. The air had tasted somewhat magical (or at least she thought it had, she was unaware of how magic actually might taste, in a metaphorical sense, or otherwise). Right now, it was very much a normal night. Her experience was decidedly unsatisfactory. She frowned some more at the darkness before retreating back inside to the comfort of her double bed. This was also unsatisfactory as it was also resolutely normal. No extravagant sheets adorning it and definitely no dashing man residing within.  She curled up and anticipated normal and unsatisfactory dreams. Probably about a particularly dull night spent on a balcony.