Two years.

Two years. I had a crush on someone for two years. I saw them every day at work. I spent all my time trying to find things to say, anything to get a conversation going. I tried to be working on the same things they were, anything to be standing next to them. For two years.

Seven hundred and thirty days. I spent seven hundred and thirty days groveling over them. Hoping they would talk to me. Looking for a sliver of a chance to get their attention. Hoping for any sign that they could like me back.

Then, something amazing happened.

I got a text message asking if I wanted to borrow their book. It wasn't much, but we were finally on the right track. Fast forward several weeks later, and we were on our first date. They opened every door for me. They paid for every single thing we did. They drove us everywhere.

I hated it.

I used to love talking to them about our latest interests, what movies we had seen, or just about a crazy customer. But when we started going out, something changed. I no longer felt in charge or independent of my own life. I felt like I was relying on someone else for everything. I no longer felt like I got a say.

But that's not what was happening, right? They always ask me what I want to do, where I want to go, what I felt like eating. It is always my decision. Its like I was placed upon a pedestol with a lovestruck, one person crowd.

But it was more than that. Not only did I get to make all the decisions, but every word I said was law. Even when I would say something controversial, something I knew they would have a different opinion on, they would always agree with me. I quickly grew tired of being agreed with all the time. There was no longer any meaningful conversation between us. They no longer had a life outside of loving me.

I am clumsy. I'll never forget the time we went out dancing together and I tripped and fell very dramitcally. I started laughing and brushing myself off almost imediantly, but they never laughed. They just looked at me with big, worried puppy dog eyes and extended a hand. It made me furious. I didn't care if I got a bruise or a scratch. I just wanted someone to make fun of me and get over it. Instead it worried them that my little trip could have me terribly hurt.

All they ever did was worry. Everything was filled with qualms of anxiety and stress. "Was that a new bruise on your finger? Are you sure you can handle that? Better let me carry it. Oh no, don't do that, I'll do it for you." They were always worried either for me or about me. They were worried that I would get hurt. They were worried I would stop loving them. They were worried that I would leave them.

And I hated it.

I still hate it. I hate that I didn't break up with them sooner and give them a piece of their life back. I hate that when I told them how I felt, they still only agreed and told me they would do better. I hate that we never had an arguement. I hate that they worried about me. I hate that I hurt someone who only ever loved me. I hate that they loved me. I hate that I ever loved them.

But that begs the question... Did I ever love them? Or did I only have a crush that ended up not panning out? When they handed me the world, should I have taken it with open arms? Why did I only want something that I wanted to fight for?

Maybe I'm the problem.