MussoLOLen is Always Right! |

I got this in the mail this morning and it made me smile. I still hate that I can’t write, but I feel a bit better knowing that I at least inspire good writing. I love you.

I just said the loneliest “I love you” I’ve said in a long time. First time was when I was in this bad, one-sided relationship which I suspect the girl was keeping alive simply because she didn’t have a reason to dump me without looking like a total bitch. This time, though, it’s with someone who loves me back; probably more than I can imagine.

To be honest, I’m writing this with the hope that something inspirational will strike me; that I might somehow come up with the perfect piece of prose to make everything better. I got up out of bed, poured myself a drink, and hopped to the desk with laptop in tow immediately after that lonely “I love you”. It wasn’t like I didn’t mean what I was saying; rather, I said it because I meant it more than ever. Sure, there weren’t the usual affectations of an online “I love you”, with the exclamation point or the kissy-face emoticon (or in my usual case, both). But I said it because even though she didn’t know it, she needed to hear it sincerely that time.

The girl in question is a writer; among the most talented I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing personally. If you were to reduce her to a stereotype, she’d be the kind that finds her muse in misery. If you’ve ever had any experience with the type, you’d know that she’s the kind who feels her emotions more strongly than the average person. When she’s high, you can’t stop her from giggling. When she’s low, every letter she types breaks your heart. This is why I find myself typing – somewhere deep in my subconscious, the Psych major in me is trying to appeal to her on an intimate level. That part of me is hoping that this sort of connection will somehow cheer her up from the funk she’s in.

Even now, I find myself making vain attempts at turning this – whatever it turns out to be – into a work of fiction. I look out my window and it’s the middle of the night, but I’m imagining a rainy gray afternoon sky. It’s the soggy, dreary kind of gray – it’s like God took a cheap piece of toilet paper, blew his nose on it, and set it across the sky. We’re at a coffee shop. She’s sitting across me, buried in work and papers and books. She doesn’t even notice I’m around.

She’s a petite girl, dressed comfortably in a thin cotton dress and short shorts underneath. She didn’t expect it to rain today. It’s one of our “Let’s meet up, but I’ve got some stuff to finish first” dates, in which we begin by not really talking as she hustles to finish her last few articles. As usual, I’ve got nothing to do, and so I occupy myself by watching her. I’ve determined that she rubs her nose whenever she’s deep in thought about something, which then leads to her adjusting her glasses.

It’s funny how things change after you’ve been dating for a while. She never used to wear her glasses on our dates. Heck, she never used to dress so comfortably when we went out. Little by little, though, I found her slowly incorporating me into every aspect of her life, including the mundane ones. The closer we got, the more open she became with her not-so-made-up self. I kind of like the easy-going vibe she has on these dates. You can say I’m blowing things out of proportion, but it makes me feel like she’s freer to be herself now.

Which brings us to this date. Now that she knows I’m pretty much okay with everything, she isn’t that uptight anymore about keeping me entertained. She knows that I don’t mind waiting for her to get her work done, and that I find her attractive in just about anything she wears. I, on the other hand, take pride in knowing that she’s found a little peace of mind in that department.

Right now, though, she’s completely consumed in her work. Her eyes are darting back and forth, and her fingers are playing a frantic beat on her laptop’s keyboard. The way I really know that she’s much too busy for anything else, however, is that this is about the fourth time she’s held an empty coffee cup to her mouth. She pauses to rub her nose again. I didn’t see it until now, but she hasn’t just been rubbing it out of habit; she’s been stifling a few sneezes, too. I get up, grab my jacket from my bag, and place it over her back. Her hand instinctively reaches back and wraps the jacket around her. She doesn’t even turn her head.

At this point, I’m still invisible to her. She’s still all alone in her own personal bubble, and she probably won’t come out of it until she’s good and ready to. She’s stressed and worried and miserable. At least she’s got something more than a thin cotton dress keeping her warm, though. For now, that’s enough.

I’m tempted to look back and read through what I wrote just now. As a writer myself, I’m incredibly harsh on my own work, and tend to nitpick every minute detail of what I produce. I want to make sure that everything I’ve written thus far resonates with emotional honesty, and that the metaphors I’ve used are correct and fitting for how she feels right now.

But I won’t. I’m going wrap this up and send it to her – no matter how bad it may seem in hindsight – as soon as I finish typing the last word. She’ll get the message anyhow. She knows I love her.