“I love you,” she said. She didn’t mean it. She said it because it was the right thing to do, because he said it first, because he was the “safe choice,” the “good guy,” because she so desperately wanted to believe it was true – for if she could find truth in her words, then maybe the loneliness wouldn’t return; that dreadful, excruciating pain that plagued her for nearly two years prior to this moment, this confession of forced emotion.
"I love you,” she said. She didn’t mean it. She said it because it was the charitable thing to do, because he said it first, because he was the “bad boy,” the “dangerous one,” because he threatened to kill himself if she didn’t comply, or fall into the same self-destructive habits as he – and she did, for the attention she so craved, the cure to that loneliness she so feared, the things that the “good guy,” months after the first exchange of heartfelt words, simply could not provide.
And so she was forced to choose – as is the case in situations such as this.
She chose both: the first, to preserve her reputation, for the image that was so “important,” so “necessary” to her survival of high school – and the second, for the supposed “bliss” he brought her, for the nights of quiet conversation and hushed laughter in her basement; given that her relationship with the latter, the “bad boy,” be in total secrecy, of course.
And so she learned an extremely important life lesson: never trust a “bad boy” with a secret.
As the girl destroyed her public relationship with the “good guy” and built up her secret, dysfunctional rapport with the “bad boy,” she became less and less aware of her surroundings, pushing away those who cared most about her, soon becoming completely oblivious to the spreading of (all too truthful) rumors of lies, secrets, and deceit. All hell ensued.
She was abandoned.
Perched on a tree branch high above the ground, she teetered on the edge of consciousness, rope in hand. The rain trickled under her collar and down her back, the leaves above providing little protection from the wrath of Mother Nature. Understanding suddenly swept over her like a tidal wave: the realization that the loneliness couldn’t be cured, only temporarily managed. She climbed down the tree, trekked the 2 miles home, and crawled into bed, drenched and numb.
“I love you,” she said. She didn’t mean it. She said it because it was the right thing to do, because he said it first, because he was the “safe choice,” the “good guy,” because she knew he wouldn’t hurt her the way she had so hurt him. However, as the tide takes sand from the shore and deposits it elsewhere, revealing a new layer, the “good guy” revealed his alter-ego: the vindictive, selfish side she had seen on only the rarest of occasions. And now he exposed it every day: each smile was paired with a glare, each compliment a derogatory statement, each praise a backstabbing remark.
The loneliness returned.
For months on end, her evenings were saturated with tears: happiness was a rare commodity for the girl, self-respect even rarer. She grasped at air, desperate for an escape, but there seemed no apparent way out. And then it all slammed into her like a freight train: her key to happiness was the destruction of her “good guy” relationship once again. She pulled inside herself, shut off her emotional connection to the world and waited for his inevitable words: “Maybe we should be just friends.” The boy’s being all too oblivious to the girl’s cocooning of herself delayed his response, but he eventually understood, and the words came – at just the right time, it seemed.
Suddenly she was alone – and thus was the death of her loneliness.
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