CHAPTER EIGHT (a very short chapter. I hope to edit and combine everything I have sometime. All of the chapters are quite short, but it helps me to finish something and move on.)

     The pain didn’t subside. There was no feeling of relief after crying into my pillow all night. My best comfort was being at home, where I could sometimes believe that I was a little kid again, and that silly things like love didn’t exist. 
     I told myself that everything would pass, that time would heal my wound. But as yet my wound seemed to have more of a flimsy scab over it, and it kept getting ripped off.
     I felt like an idiot for reacting so vehemently to something that never happened. Most girls cry over breaking up with their boyfriends: I cried over never beginning. Yet I somehow felt betrayed. People around us used to sometimes tease that there was something between us, and maybe there was. Maybe there was.
     But I was still hesitant to admit that I was in love. I still wasn’t convinced that love even existed. I stubbornly labeled it as a “silly crush,” even as I thought of him every day. I thought of him with her and I wanted to cry. And then I felt selfish and I wanted to hide. It was then that I would pull out my “little girl” facade and pretended that love was only for older, more foolish people. There was a certain complacency in un-attachment, and I wasn’t sure how I well I would react to a relationship, anyway.  Going out to dinner wasn’t my idea of a stimulating outing. Still.
     I was so confused.
     I knew that every bit of regard I felt for him was still inside of me, waiting for a moment that would never come. This bothered me, and I was determined to subdue any signs of emotion. But it bubbled over at highly inconvenient times: during church one evening I could barely hold back tears. I didn’t feel unhappy, there was just something inside of me that made me need to cry.
     Was this love?
     If there was such a thing as love, this was probably it. Having come to this oh, so decisive conclusion, I had an odd contentment mixed with my unhappiness. Something that told me what numerous authors had said for centuries: even unrequited love was better than to never have loved at all.
     I knew that regardless I wanted him to be happy. I wanted whoever was with him to be perfect for him. And I knew that Bethany was not that girl.
     I enjoyed spending time with Kitty and my friends from home. It felt so good to confide in them, but I never told them just how much I liked my friend Matt from school. I suppose it was a matter of pride. But it was nice to feel that they were always ready to listen if I ever wanted to tell.
     I talked late into the night with my friend Grace at least once a week while I was at school, and now that I as home I spent as much time with her as I could. True friends are at least equally valuable as fly-by-night-college-romance, and I never forgot that.
     Kitty, Grace and I sometimes pretended to be giddy, shockingly normal girls. We went to the mall and bought popular, name brand clothes (well, one time we did. Mostly we just gawked at the prices), then we would fall back into our normal personalities and take long, hot walks together.
     The heat of summer, the tan, the sweat, I loved it all. It reeked of relaxation, and I soaked it in as much as I could.
     But every evening I wished that I could call him and tell him everything that had happened during the day, and to hear about his. But I never could. I only talked to him when I had something specific to tell. I imagined him hearing about another girl’s day, or him spending the day with her, and then I felt lonely, even in the warmth of being home. I dreaded going back to school and seeing them together.
     There was a pain settled inside of me, and I didn’t know if it would ever go away.