I want to figure out what the fuck to do with my life
I want to know that everything will be okay
My body moving of its own accord, I turn to look for Elliot. He’s standing only metres away, his own attention captured by the wall. My chest swells and softens as I take him in, at the way his long lashes flutter as his gaze travels across the post-its, at the angle of his strong jaw and the single curl near his temple that I have grown maddeningly obsessed with. His arms are still crossed, his frame closed off, his face as undecipherable as always.
A truth settles in my bones: I don’t want to just be his friend. Not at all.
The time that Elliot and I have spent together ricochets through my mind: the moments we’ve laughed almost doubled over, his sweetness and patience when I shared my past, every snarky comment and comeback, the way his body automatically shields my own in crowds. Every moment of dejection, every tinyshred of magic. Everything I’ve felt for Elliot since we met hasallbeen entirely worth it.
Why would I ever want to erase my feelings from this weekend? Wanting someone so badly – whilst in some ways is, yes, awful – has been electrifying. The fluttering in my chest. The burning, the longing, the yearning. Obsessively watching out for his habits. Desperately holding out for those moments of tenderness. Counting down the seconds until our eyes can meet again so my body can come alive and I can feel seen in ways I didn’t think possible.
I don’t want to behave as if these feelings aren’t meant for me anymore. Now I’vetastedit. It doesn’t feel fair that such an experience should be denied to me. When I did nothing to earn such a punishment? Coldly cutting myself off from the opportunity to fall in love feels like an overcorrection now – a misplaced desire to keep the bruised parts of me locked up tight.
But surely, it’s a miraculous thing? To feel this way.
Even though it feels terrifying… in a strange way, I’ve never felt better. Like this yearning is some kind of sickness I never want to recover from. Even though rejection is likely the only outcome in this situation. Briefly, I wonder if I’ve gone insane.
Despite my efforts, there is an all-consuming want to be near Elliot, talk to Elliot, stare like an idiot at Elliot. It is exhilarating and tireless and unable to be sated.
I take another peek at him. My heart stutters.
I realise someone like Elliot won’t have a romantic interest in me; perhaps there had been a fleeting curiosity last night that happens to all human beings with sexual organs, but certainly not a let’s-choose-each-other-and-fall-in-love kind of interest. But that might come along with someone, eventually? At some point in my life, if my guard softened and gave way to something that felt real?
I let myself absorb the idea, feeling it harden and glimmer within me all at once. My lips curl into a smile and my gaze drifts again to a certain post-it:
I want to believe that love is real
Fuck it. I press my post-it against my palm and start to write in a frenzy.
I’m writing the last word when a familiar, dry voice speaks next to my ear.
‘Finished with–?’
‘Dah!’ I jump out my skin, immediately recoiling and snatching my post-it out of sight. ‘Fuckinghell. Could you not do that?’
He looks quite amused. ‘Sorry, I was wondering if you’d finished with your pen.’
‘Well, evidently not, as I was stillwritingwith it.’
‘Alright, take your time,’ he says mildly, nodding at my note.
‘Just give me two seconds.’ I finish writing the last word with a harsh exhale and tuck it into my palm to hide it from him.
Offering him the pen with a haughty look, I wait for him to take it. He hesitates and gestures towards the wall with a teasing smirk. ‘Isn’t it time to stick it down?’
‘Yes it is, when youvamoose,’ I say, ushering him away. His lips twitch as he grabs the pen and strolls down the hall.
Keeping my eyes firmly planted on his head, I slap my post-it as high as I can onto the wall. I double check its position, eyeing my words that have been inked onto paper with a strange sensation that feels a little like hope.
36
Imake the rounds through the gang, suppressing a giggle at Josh trying to take a peek at Owen’s post-it as he writes it. Hennie’s mouth twists in concentration as she scribbles onto her post-it note, making me smile fondly at the sight. Despite my curiosity, I don’t ask to see it.
I find Elliot sitting at a desk around the corner, slowly spinning in an office chair. His yellow post-it sits alone on the centre of the desk, currently blank.
Even the walls inside this unit are crammed with post-its. I climb onto the desk next to him and cross one ankle over another, letting my legs swing to and fro.
‘Writer’s block?’ I ask.
