What Ifs and Should Have

Somedays I wonder what my life would look like if I had let myself fall in love.

Let me back up.

I’ve never actually been in love or had any sort of relationship that resembled a romantic love interest. I have met boys. Wonderful, messy, beautiful boys. We were never in love. I screwed up. They screwed up. Nothing super traumatic or shady, but neither of us walked away unscratched either. We all walk away from heartache a little beaten up, a little bruised, a little more shattered than when we made eyes at each other in the first place. I’ll be the first to admit that I was mostly the one who intentionally tried to make a crack turn into the ultimate shatter. But there’s two sides to every story I suppose, and every book needs a chapter on heartbreak. Shall we?

Joe was the first boy I think I liked, more on the 'like like' side of things if we’re getting technical. We were maybe 13. I first met Joe in middle school. He was handsome. God, he was beautiful. He had a face that you couldn’t forget and eyes that you’d want to fall into. He was strong and confident. He was charming and he knew it. I was his fall back and I knew it. It wasn’t a hurtful thing. I was enchanted by him and I think he enjoyed my friendship. Joe was well liked and universally loved. I was invisible and universally tolerated. We texted about homework and about friends and about homework some more. He made me feel needed and appreciated. I think I just about smothered him in compliments and teased him relentlessly to try to cover my deeply rooted admiration of him. In high school, Joe sat behind me in our Algebra class. In all honesty, as incredibly embarrassing as this is, the thought of even seeing Joe made going to school worthwhile. I was a sad freshman, so I’d take any hope that I could get. When homecoming came around, Joe made a point to say he wasn’t going. This didn’t make sense to me because Joe was popular. He had friends who were going. I knew girls who would line up to dance with him. I went through scenario after scenario in my head, playing out different versions of a night that was yet to happen. I wanted so badly to say something to him, as if my revealed love for him would be enough to make him buy a twenty dollar dance ticket and a dress shirt. Instead, I would say nothing. The week before homecoming rolled around, I got a phone call saying that Joe was dead.

It was a Sunday. A beautiful Sunday. A friend came over before our church youth group and we were scrolling through Facebook. One status update read “RIP Joe”. I kept scrolling. A few minutes later, my phone lit up and vibrated. It was a text saying “Joe is dead”. My mind raced. I dialed a number and as soon as a voice answered I demanded answers. He had none. All we knew was that Joe was dead. He had killed himself.

I hung up. I cried. I don’t think I stopped for weeks.

I was not in love with Joe. Joe was not in love with me. But my heart still aches when I think about him. My stomach still erupts with butterflies when I think about his voice. My palms still sweat when I close my eyes and see his. When I think about Joe I feel love. But, as death tends to do in it’s own twisted way, the love has been bruised and has grieved and is a little shaky. But it’s still there. It will always be there.

A few years later, I met Jonathan. In every sense of the words, I did not see him coming. But with every ounce of my soul, I wish I would have.

Jonathan was a year behind me in school. He was goofy and kind. We had been around each other for years but I don’t think either of us noticed the other until my senior year of high school. I got tangled up in his group of friends that fall and I remember truly seeing him for the first time at a lacrosse game that spring. He was cool and calm in a way that seemed effortless, as if every breath he took came easy. I remember thinking he walked with a sense of purpose, every footstep intentional. I looked at him as if he was the captain of the football team and I the quiet freshman in the stands. A few weeks later we found each other at a party at a mutual friend’s house. I sat on the couch with him as we talked about our tumblr blogs and the bands we used to listen to in middle school. He looked at me like he saw me, and I immediately knew I had been found. One night he texted me after I’d been stood up by a boy I liked. I said those words and he showed up at my doorstep with a sympathetic smile and a Relient K song on the radio. He bought me a giant vanilla frosty and made me smile bigger than I remember ever smiling. He dropped me off hours later and I remember feeling safe. Somehow we ended up labeling each other as Prom Date, and he bought a vest that matched my dress. In the pictures we looked like Couple of The Year so we read the script and we played our part. He opened the doors and gave me his jacket and held me like I was his. I hung on every word he said and silently prayed that he’d kiss me goodnight. The night became morning and we left the high school with a long hug and a promise to meet up soon.

A few days passed and he picked me up in his car and gave me his jersey and he listened to me ramble on about Grey’s Anatomy as I panicked about his hands moving closer to mine. I think we watched an Ultimate game that night but I can’t remember who played or who won or where the hell I was. All I remember was his hand clutching mine and how my heart jumped every time he looked at me. That night ended with a sweet hug and a kiss on the cheek and yet another promise of tomorrow. We continued on like this for weeks. No labels, no titles, no conversations of either. Just lots of car rides with our hands clasped tight, late night texts and me praying I’d see him in the hallway. One Friday night I found myself shoulder to shoulder with him at the top of the steps, asking him to stay a little longer. I was met with his lips on mine. He left for a few minutes then put his arm around my waist and pulled me in close so our bodies intertwined under a pool table. We whispered about our families and our dreams for the future as our friends watched some scary movie on the television a few feet infront of us. We giggled and found ways to get our bodies as close as possible, soaking in every moment of firsts and all the excitement that young love has to offer. He’d kiss me and I’d kiss him back, unashamed of my inexperience and totally unprepared for what was to come next.

To say that Jonathan consumed me would be incorrect. He confused the heck out of me, loved the crap out of me, and made me feel so safe and secure every moment we were together. I had no idea what to do or what to say to him at all times. I’d text him to tell him I wish I’d kissed him and he would gently remind me that I could kiss him whenever I’d like to. He’d chuckle and wait patiently for my lips to find their way to his every time my heart would race too hard and I’d forget where I was headed. He’d hold my hand and trace patterns on my skin while we were watching TV, him diving into the storyline while my head would scream at my heart to stop diving into him. He’d wait for me every time I ran away, bring me down every time I started to stray. He would fight away my anxieties and sooth my insecurities and would break down walls that would get in the way.

Then one day I let my mind wander to the future and my mind saw heartbreak on the horizon so it screamed to my heart to shut it down. So I closed up shop and slowly tried to build back the walls that had been broken down by the boy who I never saw coming. A few weeks later, at the camp that I called Jesus mine, I told Jonathan that I couldn’t do “this” anymore. That college was coming up fast and I didn’t need another reason to come home on the weekends. The rain started soaking through my coat and I felt tears stinging in my eyes to match the ones I saw in his. We stood up, hugged our bodies close, and parted ways. I remember jumping in the shower, cold to my core, and crying tears that I didn’t know existed.

I didn’t know that I loved Jon until I knew that loving him meant my heart would ache for him when he wasn’t there. We spent a few weeks trying to fill the relationship gap with something that resembled friendship but it didn’t cure the pain. Then after a night of food and congratulations, he posted a photo of us then left with another girl. As college quickly approached, I grasped at any sense of normalcy and in turn latched onto him. As I tightened my grip on what I thought existed, he loosened his and used his free hand to grab onto another's. My white knuckles were pried off and replaced with a softer hand.

I eventually learned how to steady my feet and cushion the blow. As my social media accounts flowed with sweetly captioned photos of Jon wrapped around a beautiful girl, the white hot anger dulled to an ache that eventually just stung every once in awhile. It hurt because that beautiful girl was my friend. I still love her a lot. She is kind and gentle and so dang sweet. But it hurt because I felt like I’d been replaced, lied to, and betrayed. One night as I scrolled through photos of the past school year, I remembered a conversation Jon and I had about love. A few months prior, I got a text from him asking if I’d ever been in love. I naturally responded with a polite “No, not that I know of. Have you?” and he responded with a story of unreciprocated love that he had for a girl in middle school. At the time, I didn’t know who he was talking about. Flash forward a few months, and they were wrapped up in each other’s arms. At the time, I felt cheated. I felt used. I felt like I was a stand in while he waited for the Girl Of His Dreams to fall in love with him. Now that it had happened, I was just a girl he used to know.

A few years later, those feelings felt like fact. I got lunch with said girlfriend a couple of years after her and Jon had broken up and I showed her a blog post he had written about me. Casually, giggling as she scooped up a french fry, she labeled me as the Back Up Plan while she was The One He Wanted. I sat there, mouth wide open and breathless. I was stunned. She didn’t mean it hurtfully. She didn’t care about him anymore. He rarely crossed my mind. But I remember tears welling up in my eyes as I thought about her words later that day and the fiery hot rage returned.

Here’s the thing about heartbreak, the open wounds may turn into scars, but the scars really never go away. When I think about earthly love, these stories are the only ones I can look back on for reference. I don’t see sunshine and rainbows and engagement rings promising a lifetime of joy and hope. I see sleepless nights and deep cuts and a lifetime of having to constantly watch my back. And while I know isn’t real love, it’s the only love I’ve ever known.

So I tend to cringe at texts that say kind words and I shy away from anything resembling a relationship. I fight back feelings and choke down tears and keep my distance. I am safe in my own skin, secure in my own thoughts, and content in my own feelings. I don’t have to carry anyone else’s burdens, share my food or my secrets, worry about someone else’s feelings. I have my heart and it it safely held in my own hands and securely fastened in my Father’s.

However, this game isn’t played without a cost, and the price I have to pay for a life without heartbreak is a lifetime of loneliness.

So here I am, heart locked up with a smile on my face. My skin is tough to match the armor around my heart as I brace for the storm, alone.