Maybe You Never Looked At Me The Same Way I Looked At You
But when I look at you, I see love.
I’m an observer. I love to sit in the back and watch as people live their lives. Sometimes I look for lessons, other times I’m just in search of something beautiful. This time, I found you.
Suddenly, my habit of sitting in cars, looking through the window and admiring the view meant nothing to me anymore. All I could lay my eyes on was you. You always had glasses on while driving, I found the way you hold your steering wheel quite odd, and there’s this one song that you like singing to where you give a sly smile when this one specific line comes up. If I had taken photos of you then the ones of you just driving would have been my most favorite.
I’ve also noticed the way you drink your coffee. The way you press your lips ever so gently on the mug, taking sips so small you’d think it would take you at least half an hour to finish the entire thing. Maybe you’re afraid of burning your tongue or you’re just one of those people who savors every cup, I don’t know. But you never kissed me in such a tender way; I was almost slightly jealous of those cups.
And you wear this orange tee a lot. I notice this because I love seeing you in that shirt. For some inexplicable reason, my heart goes soft every time I see it. I never liked the color orange, but I always told you that you wore it so well in the hopes that you wear it more often. And funny enough, that last afternoon when you asked me to come over to yours to watch the sunset, as I drove into your street, there you were, sitting on the curb waiting for me in your orange shirt. The same night I met your mom, who was so kind and had an inner glow so radiant it could light up the entire room. You wanted to show me the moon, so you took out your big telescope and I observed as you were setting it up while your father and I were getting to know each other a little bit more. But I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. You looked so excited and so passionate, like a kid who couldn’t wait to share his new toy to his friends. You don’t know this, but all I could think about that night was how I knew I was already falling in love with you.
You opened my eyes to a world that was kinder, happier, and more meaningful. I started catching myself singing in the car and smiling out of nowhere because you’d cross my mind. The way I dressed began to reflect the joy I felt in me: colorful, light, pretty. I felt more comfortable in my own skin too. And I was painting a lot again, went on more adventures, gained the motivation to do all the things I thought I’d lost affection for.
You had an impact on me that was so strong, it made me want to stop living in obscurity. Yes, you helped me see beyond my own perspective, but in doing so, the walls around my heart had been broken down too. But when I was finally ready to allow myself to love again, it turns out you weren’t.
After months of being around and discovering new things together, spending nights either watching the stars or feeling your hands in the dark looking for mine, endless stories and laughter just between us two, when time came that I had to ask you what we were, you said you just weren’t ready then, or in the near future, to be in a relationship.
So, maybe I was wrong. Maybe I put you on a pedestal, maybe I misread your kindness for love. I just thought if we were only friends, you wouldn’t come over and stay up all night to watch me cry after having too much wine and give me a shower to calm me down. Or just walk into my house like you’ve been living here for so long. Or leave the door open and have dumb conversations with me while you use the bathroom. Because friends don’t just casually do that, right?
But maybe it really was love. Maybe you were just scared or needed a little bit more time.
Though, as much as it hurts looking back at it now, I can’t get rid of the feeling that perhaps you just never saw me in the same way. Yet, back then, all I could think of was that I saw you. I saw you and I loved every bit of it.
I just wish you did too.