Unrequited Love

No one knows of my infatuation with you. There is no one to tell of the sleepless nights, the sudden lack of appetite; how the mere glimpses of you cause my heart to shift into fifth gear and my breath to catch inside my lungs.

I can’t share with anyone the way my stomach churns with a desperate desire for things I allow only myself to imagine, with eyes closed, behind the locked bathroom door.

I marvel at the sensation of fullness that floods my chest and belly as I float, suspended, held by the warm water in the tub; the lightness of a thousand feathers fluttering in the darkest part of my body, sequestered from everyone, even myself sometimes, for I am certain thinking about you in this way is a sin.

At least that’s what the good-girl self, the me crouching outside the bathroom door is whispering through the crack. She insists I keep you a secret. She warns me that Mom wouldn’t understand, would be horrified by the longings that creep beneath the covers late at night and dare my fingers to play in places that are unseen by daylight, unfamiliar to anyone but the me that emerges in the steam of the bath.

In those rare moments of solitude, my mind flashes on your face, the freckles that pepper your nose and cheeks, the greasy shine of your forehead and chin, the hair that always looks disheveled and in need of a trim.

I lean back with my head against the rim of the tub and smile a satisfied smile. My fingertips touch my lips and I imagine you kissing me. I remember the summer-night breeze that flowed through the dusty window screen last night, the way it spilled over my bare arms and legs and made the tiny hairs rise in anticipation. This is how it must feel to be kissed all over.

The good-girl recoils in panic and shame. She doesn’t want anyone else to know of the unfolding that presses on me from the inside, that demands I unlock the door to the nocturnal part of me; the same way I imagine your lips would unlock a moan should they ever graze my throat.

I want to spend time alone with these stirrings, the ones that arise in my body and claim no words— the silent desire to touch and be touched, to kiss and be kissed.

I lay in the tub, the water still hot, my face slick with perspiration and know that sooner or later, I’ll surely die of starvation. I will wither away and the wind will carry particles of me into space.

My dust will form a star.

Is this what love feels like? I wonder. To never have another thought except of the beloved?

I have no way of knowing if you feel the same way about me. It has only been a couple of times that I got to sit next to you and it felt terrifyingly exciting. I had let my hand drop between our chairs and wished, with all my powers, that you’d do the same; that our pinkies would touch.

You never did.

Mom’s knocking on the bathroom door. “The water must be stone cold by now. Get out already!”

I fight the sudden urge to reach for my towel and hide my face from her voice. I know it’s silly, but I wonder whether she senses something is off with me. I must keep my daughter-self in place— hair in a ponytail, no far away looks, lots of games with my sister.

“I’m coming!” I shout at the closed door and begin to quickly soap my body, thoughts of you and your disheveled hair washing away in the lather.