An Honest Life

Eleven years ago I called up a boy and asked him to take a walk with me. I had a serious crush on this boy, and the phone call from my dorm room to his was prefaced by shaking hands and deep breaths. I’m positive he knew what was happening, what this was about, but I was all jitters and oblivious. He was always cool. 

I intended to tell him about how much I liked him. We shared a strange love for strange music. He was funny and I loved to laugh. He was a clown and I was shy. We made mix CDs for each other, went to small rock shows together, and he played the piano for me while I sat on the couch in the boys’ dormitory lounge. Of course, I thought he was wonderful.

We took that walk. He didn’t return the sentiment. I realized it wouldn’t work. Over the next couple months, as we remained friends, I found him unreliable, selfish, and full of himself. I was glad he didn’t like me back. 

My memory is not too great. Instead, I feel like most of my growing up years are a big blur, studded with incredibly sharp incidents that suddenly turn blurry again. 

This walk was one of those sharp incidents. I remember that walk. I remember how I felt, I remember where we walked to, I remember walking back. I remember the feeling I had the moment I realized he had taken my confession and let it fall. He did not return it to me. 

But on that walk, I began my confession with a statement: “I told myself that when I started college I would be honest. I would be honest to myself, and to others”. And that is how I found myself spilling the beans to this boy who didn’t care. And this is how I find myself on this blog.


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