With Facebook that’s all you have: fantasies. And your fantasies within those and those fantasies to which you put yourself to sleep. It encourages you to be fanciful because all you feel inside is that none of it is actually real.
You don’t know each other well enough – he goes to another school, far away, in a country setting where pretty girls can bat their lashes and be attractive in ways you can’t.
So you just sit there in front of the computer and refresh, checking every post, picture, and comment for a clue that maybe, just maybe he’s thinking about you and wanting you, and hoping, just hoping that one day you’ll rush across that bridge to each other in the rain to a passionate, beautiful kiss.
But you can’t. You’re busy cataloging your thoughts, turning them into their own crises, like a harping, numbing question wanting to be answered, which you refuse to acknowledge and claim as your own.
You start thinking about all the decisions you’ve made up to that point. Who am I doing this for? Me? This man whom I’ve only been in movie love for? Are my plans good enough? How can I live with myself if all I am is an epilogue to an arc of thirtysomething? You’re still in your 20s.
You get the feeling that that plan, the one for your future, where you’re happy and things are great and you make money and you have someone around to love you and hold you and fall asleep with, might kill you before you ever get to see it through.
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