Part One
My mother told me to not cry over this boy. But there I was, crying over Bale in the bathroom of the last few minutes of a Tuesday school period. I had come to the realisation that I had a very rational worry of showing Bale any emotion in my eyes; a fear of Bale seeing me vulnerable.
That lunch, there was something wrong with me.
I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was walking when I wasn’t. It was like I blacked out and woke up again in a millisecond, but in reality, it felt like full minutes I was running around, until I was struck back.
It had been a hot minute since my corny, needy teenage heart and head had thought about Bale.
My Bale’s eyes were cold as usual, yet, they had the ability to make me feel warm, as if I was in one of those teenage 2000s movies. But they didn’t today.
That sucked.
Not being able to grasp any air started to affect my head. I started mumbling—according to what they told me, anyway. But my Bale—my sweet, sweet Bale, who, somehow, never has a clue of what’s going on—didn’t see me go down.
Not physically. In fact, I’d prefer to physically go down before they see me vulnerable.
That tells a lot about me.
I couldn’t stand to have my Bale see through me. I could never see through him. I’ve never seen a flare of anger, or the glossiness of sorrow, or even a glimpse of what’s underneath.
I’m afraid Bale doesn’t see me. At the same time, I fear what happens when he sees too much of me: the tears running down my face in that bathroom, admitting my feelings like they were my sins.
One of those stalls still hides the echoes of my voice wavering, I bore my true self—and my thoughts about my Bale, to my friend. How I had gotten lost in those brown eyes and I am afraid to admit Bale and I’s relationship is far past our honeymoon phase.
I went down like one of those melodrama actors in the 19th Century on stage.
Once I started I couldn’t stop. Because it hurts—to worry that if something horrible happened to either of us, I know I’d wallow like a widow for him yet I’m still afraid my Bale might not hug me at the end of the day.
My Bale looked at me almost in resignation—when I did ask for one. My Bale.
I was practically a sitting duck when I first finally looked in Bale’s brown eyes. A little smile, some small talk and—baby, I was stuck. I’m a new romantic, and yes, I’m well aware I’m a corny teenager—and so is Bale—but he’s got his head down to Earth, and I’ve got mine stuck in the stars.
I thought he could show me the sea and I knew I’d take him to Mars.
I’d chase Bale from above and follow him through his own currents and through my star patterns. I chase and chase and chase Bale until I feel wrong slowing down or stopping. I text first, I always ask Bale out first and I plan around Bale. I was the one who asked him to be my Bale. He never asked me to be his.
I feel I am both the jester and the knight. I play the fool just for his eyes to be on me, and I proudly exclaim I’d be right by his side until my bones break. I chase Bale.
But I yearn. I yearn that once—just once, I’d be the one that’s held, the one that’s being texted first, the one to be hugged, not the one to open my arms first.
The one that’s kissed.
I don’t know if my Bale is shy, or scared, or bored, or anything. All I know is that I am sick of being the chaser.
My feet are getting tired, but my arms reach for him. Above anything: I love Bale. All my thoughts are consumed by him—joy, despair, confusion, and now fear.
Fear turning into hate.
But I could never hate my Bale.
Anything else I feel for Bale is outweighed by my love for him.
But I absolutely despise myself. Why can’t I get over this? I’ve bounced back from worse… surely. I promised my dear mother that I wouldn’t cry over my Bale. My Bale was—is—the light at the end of the tunnel.
Out of all the apples in his eye, he saw me. But does he really see me?
… Do I see him?
Will I ever be able to see him?
All these questions… and I don’t see them getting answered. I know I love that man, and I think I love him too much. Too much that I start giving him pieces of me, pieces that are still young and naive, because I’m still a teenager who feels too much.
I think about Bale too much. I overthink about Bale too much. And I love my Bale even as he swam too deep; the light of my stars can only reach so far.
And believe my corny, needy teenage heart when I say I’d give my reputation, my grades and my pride, for this disgusting feeling in me to be silenced.
For my Bale to even mumble, “I need you,” or for him to show any sign: a tear, a shout, anything that doesn’t require me to chase him down.
I’ll give Bale my heart—I know I will. A gift is never a two way street. My satisfaction will come from seeing his joy.
My body aches—my head, my heart, my soul. My Bale is not the one for me. We’re teenagers. I’m a corny, needy teenager. And he isn’t. My Bale doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve.
We have our whole life ahead of us, we are not going to be in each other’s life for much longer and everybody breaks up eventually.
But I thought I’d have longer with my Bale.
Before I’d notice these little things, before these negative thoughts would flood my head. But he’s the light at the end of the tunnel. He’s the one that somehow knocks the wind out of me, that makes me forget what to say. He’s the one I hate to chase, the one I know wouldn’t take the first step to find me. He’s the one to show the stars.
And no matter how many things I stuff down deep, deep inside of me… I’ll always be here for him. In his corner, however dark it is, I’ll always have something to cling onto.
My loyalty.
My Bale.
Part Two
A weight was taken off my shoulders the moment that text came through. Courage couldn’t have come sooner as I felt that ache in my heart start to worsen, that hurt in my head start to pound again. I glanced over my phone and saw my fear confirmed. I took a break and slumped against the bed. My Bale… no longer mine.
His name is running around my head. His family I’ve met, his friends that I would now call my own. Me.
I was rational. I texted back. The good thing about texting is that no one can see your eyes, your face, the calls for them that will go unanswered.
My second, less rational reaction… was to run to him.
I felt my feet move before my mind clicked into place. I cannot run to him. I cannot run to him and wrap my arms around him and tell him how this hurts. I cannot breathe in and out and tell him that at least I have him.
I no longer have him and he no longer has me. My safe space, my sun—my Bale. No longer mine.
But my loyalty? Slower than my heart, slower than my head; still not slowing down. It keeps running, running and running. He told me there was nothing I did wrong. I hear his voice over text, I try to feel his arms around me.
I had finally told him I loved him.
Over call—not flattering, I know. I silenced this awful feeling. Even if only for ten minutes—I was on top of the world. Bale was mine, and I felt put together again. All those tears I cried were worth nothing, as the problem in me was fixed.
I did not make a sound. Not one tear shed, not a whimper emitted, not another quiet cry for him. I was pulled back down to reality, he was no longer in my corner. Was he ever in my corner to begin with?
Doubt creeps in.
He was. I knew. The same way I knew he no longer had that spark. And I had to be okay with that.
People often think that staying with your lover through hard times means cheating, family issues, financial issues. What about when they’ve lost their spark? This was all a bump in the road—it had to be. I was going to work through this—with him especially, because I trusted him.
We are young. We are so very young. Three months was a fever dream for young, cringey, teenage me.
It wasn’t gone in an instant. Hearts don’t shatter into a million pieces, they fall apart slowly and alone. Even when surrounded by the kindest, they fall apart. It was gut wrenching: more the lead up and finding my voice than the outcome; I was fine afterwards. I picked myself up and made reasonable conversation, I asked him fair questions, I answered rationally when questioned myself.
Everything was now put into order. Reason. He told me about him. How he was feeling. It only made me fall for him more. A smile spread across my face. First one in a long time when thinking about him.
He brought understanding, and next up was love.
Then I put down my phone.
If the sun in our solar system did go out, we wouldn’t know for another eight minutes—our final eight blissful minutes of sunshine and warmth, until then we’d unknowingly freeze to death under a cold sky.
I’d have to spend another week without him talking to me. Then it stretched, more and more until I finally reached the end. Him and I were no more.
He had broken up with me.
He had fallen out of love with me.
He told me it was nothing I did wrong. That he didn’t regret a single thing. No kisses he wanted to take back, no hugs, no hands were held that he wanted to push away. We have different interests. He’s moving on. Reasons.
Reasons that all conclude he’d be moving on without me.
I didn’t know. I didn’t know that would be the last time we kissed, last time he looked my way, last time I held him—last time he held me. The pain returns within a fleeting moment, I’d never make another memory with him—never feel him. Everything was about him. And I wasn’t complaining.
He still feels like my everything, even though he’s just another person when I walk by in the corridor, a person I used to know. Of course, we’ve broken up and now he and I are allowed to feel things for others, but we didn’t go out in hurtful words. Just a person losing their feelings for another. Still friends, he said. We can still be friends. That meant the world.
Tell me, would you rather be the jester or the knight? The person who entertains from a distance, only seeing the princess once in a while, watching her laugh, or the knight who’d stick by the princess’s side till the day that she goes down the path he cannot follow?
I am the knight. Always the knight. It hurts to admire from a distance. We can still be friends. And I still feel for him. It was him who lost it for me. I cannot bring my heart to hate—not him. Not Bale and not even myself.
Love.
Love is what carries me on. Cringey, I know. Love for me—love for him. I still want to be close. Want to be the person he runs to—runs for. I would draw my sword still, I would punch and kick and hurt for him still. My loyalty is for him still.
You are born singular, then you learn to love. Love for friends, love for family and soon love on a deeper level for another. You think you know what to do when you first get butterflies for your first special someone; you think you see the end. But we always learn. It’s what keeps us human. And you always come out of your first relationship single in a different way than how you were single before that special someone.
As you can tell, I’m still a bit hung up on him. I still only see him—I cannot even gather myself to think of another man. When I place myself in the near, near future I am encaptured by his warmth still.
Gaslighting myself to think either he’d come back or that he never left. No matter; he’d be with me by the end of it all.
I lie. Yet it provides a light at the end of the tunnel.
I’m kidding, of course. I was mature enough to enter a relationship and I am mature enough to exit politely and without hurtful words being spewed.
But I fear.
I don’t want the man who I’ve grown to love to look at another girl the same way he used to look at me.
I left it there for a few weeks after that line. It left me quiet—and hurting, biting my tongue as that line left me unable to think, thus unable to write. Because it stung me. The wasp keeps coming back as I feel the words stuck in my throat.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know where to go.
I feel more and more things pile onto my shoulders as I am unable to swim to safety. My time is filled up with the new hellhole of seniorhood, more work equals less space to think. Less time to process. But as soon as I find myself drifting off to sleep, I feel him.
All roads lead back to him.
In my dreams, I see him and he sees me—his slight chuckle and warm eyes on me, my arms around him. Then the sudden, evident realisation that he is no longer at my fingertips. Despite being the knight, I’m ironically also the fool. The fool with the slowest heart.
The fool loyal to a fault.
The fool still loyal to a man no longer.
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