Ice and Fire
Dear Em*, Are you my Halley’s Comet or my North Star?
To My Halley’s Comet
An avoidant and a dependent: it’s a story that has no right to exist.
It’s ice and fire, her faded blue bob and modest mini to my crimson-red split-dye and chained-up plaid skirt. (See: Dear Ex-Girlfriend, another column from “An Ellie For Your Thoughts.”) And it’s day and night, her spotlight-eluding shyness to my attention-seeking gaudiness.
She holds up an unbreakable guard to her soul that I want, oh so desperately, to hold and understand and make part of mine—while I share every part of mine to her, in my words and in my writing. I hope that piece by piece she might hold and understand and make those parts of mine hers.
I want her to know that I would never hurt her.
At times, it feels as though every moment I don’t already spend with her is spent thinking about her. I think about her to the point that it hurts.
Her guard comes down sometimes, though far from frequent, and when it does, I catch the most mesmerizing glimpses of the person she wants to be—the person she could never really let herself be. Perhaps she’s afraid that if she does, she’ll only get hurt all over again. I want to tell her over and over that I would never hurt her. Honestly, I say this to myself, that statement, for myself as much as for her.
I say it to myself, too, because I’ve hurt people before. No matter how much I didn’t mean to, I’ve hurt every person I’ve ever loved as well. Once, while they thought I was asleep, two people I care about quite deeply had a conversation about me that I think about even to this day:
“She keeps saying she’s grown as a person,” the first person said. “But honestly, I don’t think she has.”
And the other responded: “She only cares about herself.”
That hurt me so much, what they said about me, and it made me feel the pain I’d caused other people all these years. It haunts me, that past version of me—that version of me that perhaps still lives inside me to this day—and I’ve never really known how to live with it.
Perhaps that’s why I try so hard to protect my lovely little blue-haired girl, to keep her safe. Perhaps that’s why I masked so much around her—trying to seem the perfect person that would always be able to protect her. (Honestly, perhaps I was really just trying to protect her from myself.)
And perhaps that concealed part of me knows that if I don’t put in every piece of my soul in devoting myself to that lovely little blue-haired girl practically to the point of worship, that someday she might fall from grace in my mind and I’d end up trampling all over her... and leaving her broken in the same way I’ve always done to anyone I’ve ever loved.
Regardless of anything, I’m such a selfish person, no matter how much I tell myself I’m not. I’m a selfish and hurtful bastard who only hurts everyone around me.
I think that’s why I’m so devastated every time she goes away: because the person that she makes me be—the best approximation of that best version of me—goes away, too.
Ever since I met her, I wanted to be better. I tried to be better. I’m trying to be better. For her. Always for her.
But I hope she’ll love me as I am now, even though I’m not that “best version” of myself that I could possibly be. I hope that I only need to be myself.
And I don’t only care about myself, not anymore. I care about her. I want her to know that, and I want myself to know that, too. At times, I think I need myself to know that more than she does. (I want to believe myself when I say that I’m worth loving, too.)
I want to tell her all of this, my lovely little blue-haired girl, because I want her to know me for who I really am. There’s a lot of me for her to know. This isn’t all of it, not in the least, but it’s a start. I hope it’s enough for her. Hell, I hope it’s enough for me.
I think about some of the rare times that she allows herself to lower that unbreakable guard of hers.
When we lie down on a patch of grass and stare at the night sky together, pointing at the scattering of stars that lightly dot the dark and vast canvas of the universe, and I glance at that lovely little blue-haired girl, seeing stars in her eyes, there’s nothing I can do but want to have her all for myself.
She thinks about all the secrets of the universe, and I think about her.
And I wish to myself that she might move closer. And she wishes to herself, maybe, that she could let herself do that. Perhaps she wishes to herself that she might be able to stare at the sky without my or anyone else’s invading presence, that she might feel herself part of the unconscious and uncaring machinations of an indifferent cosmos—or perhaps she wants to let go of that shyness and keep me all for herself, too.
At times I keep her tethered to the ground—tethered to me—thoughtlessly, perhaps inconsiderately, perhaps even selfishly. Perhaps I keep her from reaching the stars, where she belongs.
I have stars in my eyes every time I see her, and I think of the life we might have together.
Perhaps I should let go of my own tether and let her shape that dream, too. And then we might step into the abyss together, and we’d make our own light along the way.
Oh, my lovely little blue-haired girl, can you be more than my Halley’s Comet?
To My North Star
To my lovely little blue-haired girl who always makes my day:
I know you read my most recent column. (See: Notes from a Hope(less/ful) Romantic, another column from “An Ellie For Your Thoughts.”) And I know you didn’t like it. I know it upset you, and I know that it made you feel like I hated you. I want you to know that I don’t.
When you called me two days ago, crying, asking: Why did you write this? I wasn’t sure what to tell you then. We talked about it, and we figured it out then, but I’m writing these letters now to tell you everything I wanted to say that I couldn’t out loud.
Love, I can’t pretend that you’ve never hurt me.
The time I spent without you, when you went away last year, I think about it all the time. It hurts me even now, however much I try to move past it.
Sometimes, I’m afraid that if I let my guard down again—like I did back in the spring of last year—that you might hurt me, regardless of how much you don’t want to, all over again. It’s coming up on February again, around the time when you first went away last year. And I’m scared. I’m really scared that—even if I know with all my heart that it won’t happen again—it might actually happen again.
And it did happen again, even if it was by accident, didn’t it? I didn’t hear from you for three weeks last month. I know, love, why it happened, and I know that you didn’t mean to. I know that everything started to be all too much all at once; I can relate to end-of-semester woes all too much.
But what happened hurt me every day; I already told you that. It was fresh wounds over old ones.
And I thought about you every day; I told you that, too.
“If she hasn’t talked to you in three weeks, is she even still your partner?” one of my housemates said to me at the end of last month. It felt like a punch in the gut. “Yes, she is,” I responded. “I know her better than that. She wouldn’t leave me. Not again.”
I know you felt that pain, too, feeling like I left you alone for all that time. It was a shared pain borne of miscommunication and misgivings. (We’ve had a lot of those in the past year that we’ve known each other, haven’t we? I know we’re not perfect, no matter how much we try to be.)
Perhaps a concealed part of you is too scared to love, too scared to lower your guard around me in fear that I might hurt you. Perhaps other people have hurt you in the past, brought you to the ground and trampled all over you, and even today you’re afraid that it might happen again. Perhaps that’s why it’s so hard for you to give in to love and life.
Despite it all, you’re such a loving person, no matter how much you tell yourself you’re not. You’re such a loving and caring person who makes everyone around you better.
I think that’s why I’m so devastated every time you go away: because the person that you make me be—the best approximation of that best version of me—goes away, too.
I hope that, in the times that you’re away from me, you’re also working on approaching your own best version.
But I still want you to know that you don’t need to be—your own “best version,” that is. I fell in love with you the way you were then. I love you the way you are now.
My greatest hope is that you care about yourself as much as I care about you. Because you are worth loving, as am I. I want you to believe me when I say that. I’m not sure you always will, so I’ll make sure to keep saying it for as long as I’m by your side.
I’m telling you all of this, my lovely little blue-haired girl, because I want to know who you are. I want to know who you really are. Perhaps if I’m honest enough with you, letting my guard down enough for you to know my best and my worst, that you’ll be honest with me, too.
I’m hoping that if we both let down our guards enough, that we might be able to make this work.
The challenges ahead are going to be tough, I know that. They’ll try to break us and threaten to destroy what we have. They’ll make us think that our best times are long past—that all we can do is keep pressing rewind to that first date on Newbury St—but you and I know better than that.
Still, the fear of losing you again will never really leave me, I think.
But I know it won’t happen. I know you won’t let it. I know you won’t leave me again. I know I can count on you, that I can trust you. I promise I trust you. I trust you. You know I do, and you know I always will. They say I can’t count on you, but I know I can. Because you’re my lovely little blue-haired girl. Things change, and people change; I hope the two of us can change for the better, not just for ourselves, but for each other.
I’ve written about you, in my papers and in my thoughts, more times than I can count. And I’ll keep writing about you over and over until there’s a piece of our story for every star in the sky.
I have stars in my eyes every time I see you, and I think of the life we might have together.
You know I can’t promise you a lot of things—but I can promise you my devotion and commitment. I can promise you me. I hope you can promise me you.
Oh, my lovely little blue-haired girl, will you be my North Star?