I hate being alone.

I told her it was better this way, like this was how things were meant to be. And, I believe that. I think that I was meant to be alone. Letting her get close, wanting her, needing her . . . it was the biggest mistake of my entire life.

And yet, I do want her. I do need her.

I’ve always told myself that it was easier to be by myself. I never had to worry about someone not coming through for me because I never gave them the chance to begin with. There’s never disappointment when there was never any hope in the first place.

Still, it’s not as easy as I’ve tried to convince myself. I don’t feel the hurt when I don’t let anything in. It seems like a good thing, but I’ve learned that isn’t always the case. Sometimes, even the hurt feels better than nothing at all. Feeling nothing is the hardest thing there is.

I feel everything when I’m with Maria.

She makes me think, makes me want, makes my whole miserable existence suddenly seem worthwhile. In her arms, I’m somebody. When I press my lips to hers and hold her close, I’m part of the world around me at last.

It scares me.

I’d never admit my fear to Max, or even to Isabel. They’re the only ones who’ve ever known me, but they really don’t know me at all. They couldn’t possibly fathom what my life has been like. They don’t have the same intimate knowledge of loneliness that I have.

Maria knows me.

I think that’s what scares me the most. It’s not that I think she would let me down or hurt me . . . it’s that, if she’s so close, then she’s letting me be important to her as well. And I don’t deserve that trust. I don’t deserve the emotions that I see in her eyes when she looks my way. I’m not worth that, and I can’t let her believe that I am.

Tonight, at that stupid party, all I wanted to do was go over there and kiss her breathless. She looked so beautiful, so perfect, so Maria . . . I could never tell her those things. She can never know that I think these things about her, but I do. I think that the sun rises and sets on her, that all that sappy poetry they make us read in school was written just for her. I think that I could be happy if she and I were the only two people alive.

But I could never do that to her. Maria doesn’t need my shit anymore than Max and Isabel do. I’m fucked up; fucked up beyond repair. Letting her get close to me would just be an invitation into my crappy life and I can’t sit back and watch as my world becomes hers. I won’t do that.

I’m kidding myself, I know. Thinking that I can see her everyday and not eventually grab her and pull her into the eraser room is one of my loftier delusions. When it comes to her, I’m weak. Sooner or later I’ll slip and fall and no one will be there to catch me except for her. Why do I always expect that she’ll be there when I fall?

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t sit in bed and think about her without going crazy. I have to make myself stop. I have to not think about the way her eyes get dark when we kiss or the way her hair feels beneath my fingers. I’ve got to stop remembering her taste and her smell and her feel. I have to stop.

But, I can’t stop. It’s too late. I’ve already fallen.

* * * * *

The End