W. Cameron Avenue, Chapel Hill, 27516
Meredith Whitley
Meredith Whitley
What does it mean to be a hopeless romantic? You called me that once. That was before you knew my secret. Or maybe you knew all along. I remember we were talking about attraction at that little coffee shop off of East Boulevard, and I told you that when I like someone, I often fall in too deeply. You told me you wanted to see me giddy from infatuation. How could I have told you that at that current moment I was completely consumed by the idea of you. I wanted to tell you everything: the way I stare at your lips when you’re inches away from me, the way I imagine you might stare at mine, the flutter in my chest when you touch my arm, run your fingers through my hair. I wanted to tell you everything, but instead I just smiled. “There is someone,” I eventually said. And it was true. The older brother of my middle school best friend. The girl who lived a block away from my childhood home. The boy from our school heading to DC for the semester. I would mention all of these people briefly, all of the people that I was using as a distraction because my heart was pounding for you. And that’s when you called me a hopeless romantic. You said that you were as well. You said that our relationship was different: you and me. That our relationship was different than yours with anyone else. You told me that I was a person who opened you up and helped you break free. But all I had done was love you the way that you deserved. I remember saying that out loud, but did you hear? Were you listening?
Don’t worry, darling, even I can tell that we aren’t meant to be, but wouldn’t it be marvelous if we were?
I’ve started waking up early ever since I moved back into that apartment halfway down Fordham Boulevard. You live eight minutes away, closer to West Cameron Avenue. Ironic. So many streets in this town are named after you. Cameron Court. East Cameron Avenue. Cameron Glen Avenue. Apparently, these streets are in recognition of some dude named Paul Carrington Cameron, but all I ever think about is you. And so I’ve started waking up early because you like to wake up before the sun so that you can admire as it rises. And so you can hear the silence of a world at peace. A world still asleep. And I like to imagine the world through your eyes, so I do it too. It’s pathetic, I know. Like in high school when I’d walk out of that specific door of the science building right at 10:41 am because I knew that’s when I’d run into him in the quad. Pathetic. But I get up early because I like when you’re the first text I receive in the morning. And the last one I send before I go to sleep.
But tell me this: is he your first and last?
That movie we both love says, “Perhaps we were friends first and lovers second, but perhaps that’s all that lovers are.” Do you connect with him the way that you’ve connected with me? Are you friends first? I hope so because I do want you to be happy. I’m just making sure that you are.
Don’t worry, darling, I understand this couldn’t work between you and I, but is it only because of him? I understand, of course; I just wish I didn’t have to.
“I’m in awe of the way you wrote about the night he ended it because I think I felt that way too,” you texted me in response to that letter where I confessed how deeply I had fallen.
“What do you mean, just out of curiosity?”
“I just remember feeling really confused and curious and safe.”
My heart skips a beat then begins to race, and for just a split second I think that it could work. You and me. Even if only just once. I just want to see if your hands fit with mine. If your lips do the same. But then I remember him. And my chest starts to burn as if there’s little shards of glass stuck inside that are too small for fingers to grasp, but painful enough that I can’t help but try. And when I look at myself in the mirror, all that’s left are pieces of my own flesh on the floor and a hole in my chest where my heart used to reside.
Google search: “How to deal with unrequited love for a friend”.
“Pick your distance,” it urges me.
I remember asking you for help. We were driving down
that road in the rain, and it almost could’ve been romantic
except that it was the farthest thing from it. I confessed
that I felt uncomfortable, and you told me you didn’t
understand why. You said we were almost like a movie: new
and flirty and exciting. Not for me, though, I told you. You
reemphasized that it was never one-sided. That you dreamed
of me too. That I occupied space in your mind. You said you
weren’t sure if that made my heart feel better or worse, and
I told you worse.
- Meredith Whitley
“I really hope this isn’t you saying that you can’t be friends with me anymore, but I understand if you need space.”
“For better or for worse, that’s the last thing that I want.”
As painful as it feels to know that I’m falling into infatuation (some might call it love, but I think I’m more rational than that), and you could never reciprocate, it sounds even worse to imagine you out of my heart completely. Even if nothing ever changes, I’m not sure that I want to let go. I wish I didn’t care so much, but then we wouldn’t be you and me anymore, right? Do you think we will ever be “you and me” again?
Don’t worry, darling, all this really is is inspiration. Or at least, mostly all. (But if you crawled into my bed tonight the feelings might all flood back. Might. I know you see straight through that. You know me well enough to know that I can never let go.)
What does it mean to be a hopeless romantic? Because I don’t remember the first time our eyes met, though more than anything I wish I could. But now my world is flooded green, emerald and glowing. And I finally understand what they mean when the heartbroken lovers of the world say they can’t stop the hurting. They can’t let go. That summer in France? Only ever just a dream, but do you think about it too? I want you to tell me everything still. Tell me about him if you want. Tell me all the things it doesn’t matter if we know. The first time you put gas in your car by yourself. Did you stop when the pump’s handle clicked? Or did you try to make it overflow? Are you ever afraid of swaying trees on the sides of the highways? Do you turn your windshield wipers off while driving in the rain just to watch the droplets race. Tell me how to cry without my tears in your chest, and maybe then I’ll never bother you again. Probably not.
Someone told me yesterday that lovers and friends are not all that different. And I think that I believe them.
Don’t worry, darling, even I can tell that we aren’t meant to be, but wouldn’t it be marvelous if we were?
I’ve started waking up early ever since I moved back into that apartment halfway down Fordham Boulevard. You live eight minutes away, closer to West Cameron Avenue. Ironic. So many streets in this town are named after you. Cameron Court. East Cameron Avenue. Cameron Glen Avenue. Apparently, these streets are in recognition of some dude named Paul Carrington Cameron, but all I ever think about is you. And so I’ve started waking up early because you like to wake up before the sun so that you can admire as it rises. And so you can hear the silence of a world at peace. A world still asleep. And I like to imagine the world through your eyes, so I do it too. It’s pathetic, I know. Like in high school when I’d walk out of that specific door of the science building right at 10:41 am because I knew that’s when I’d run into him in the quad. Pathetic. But I get up early because I like when you’re the first text I receive in the morning. And the last one I send before I go to sleep.
But tell me this: is he your first and last?
That movie we both love says, “Perhaps we were friends first and lovers second, but perhaps that’s all that lovers are.” Do you connect with him the way that you’ve connected with me? Are you friends first? I hope so because I do want you to be happy. I’m just making sure that you are.
Don’t worry, darling, I understand this couldn’t work between you and I, but is it only because of him? I understand, of course; I just wish I didn’t have to.
“I’m in awe of the way you wrote about the night he ended it because I think I felt that way too,” you texted me in response to that letter where I confessed how deeply I had fallen.
“What do you mean, just out of curiosity?”
“I just remember feeling really confused and curious and safe.”
My heart skips a beat then begins to race, and for just a split second I think that it could work. You and me. Even if only just once. I just want to see if your hands fit with mine. If your lips do the same. But then I remember him. And my chest starts to burn as if there’s little shards of glass stuck inside that are too small for fingers to grasp, but painful enough that I can’t help but try. And when I look at myself in the mirror, all that’s left are pieces of my own flesh on the floor and a hole in my chest where my heart used to reside.
Google search: “How to deal with unrequited love for a friend”.
“Pick your distance,” it urges me.
I remember asking you for help. We were driving down
that road in the rain, and it almost could’ve been romantic
except that it was the farthest thing from it. I confessed
that I felt uncomfortable, and you told me you didn’t
understand why. You said we were almost like a movie: new
and flirty and exciting. Not for me, though, I told you. You
reemphasized that it was never one-sided. That you dreamed
of me too. That I occupied space in your mind. You said you
weren’t sure if that made my heart feel better or worse, and
I told you worse.
- Meredith Whitley
“I really hope this isn’t you saying that you can’t be friends with me anymore, but I understand if you need space.”
“For better or for worse, that’s the last thing that I want.”
As painful as it feels to know that I’m falling into infatuation (some might call it love, but I think I’m more rational than that), and you could never reciprocate, it sounds even worse to imagine you out of my heart completely. Even if nothing ever changes, I’m not sure that I want to let go. I wish I didn’t care so much, but then we wouldn’t be you and me anymore, right? Do you think we will ever be “you and me” again?
Don’t worry, darling, all this really is is inspiration. Or at least, mostly all. (But if you crawled into my bed tonight the feelings might all flood back. Might. I know you see straight through that. You know me well enough to know that I can never let go.)
What does it mean to be a hopeless romantic? Because I don’t remember the first time our eyes met, though more than anything I wish I could. But now my world is flooded green, emerald and glowing. And I finally understand what they mean when the heartbroken lovers of the world say they can’t stop the hurting. They can’t let go. That summer in France? Only ever just a dream, but do you think about it too? I want you to tell me everything still. Tell me about him if you want. Tell me all the things it doesn’t matter if we know. The first time you put gas in your car by yourself. Did you stop when the pump’s handle clicked? Or did you try to make it overflow? Are you ever afraid of swaying trees on the sides of the highways? Do you turn your windshield wipers off while driving in the rain just to watch the droplets race. Tell me how to cry without my tears in your chest, and maybe then I’ll never bother you again. Probably not.
Someone told me yesterday that lovers and friends are not all that different. And I think that I believe them.
//
Meredith Whitley is a freshman at UNC Chapel Hill studying English and Communications. Writing has always been the hobby that allowed her to break free from the constraints of the real world. She’s never been published before but wants to start putting her work out there.
Meredith Whitley is a freshman at UNC Chapel Hill studying English and Communications. Writing has always been the hobby that allowed her to break free from the constraints of the real world. She’s never been published before but wants to start putting her work out there.