His lips slowly touch my ears, and he says "I love you." I turn away from him, giving him a pointed look. It was in a way a PDA (public display of affection), and I hated PDA. And he knew it too. I scowl at him, and walk away from him. As predicted he runs after me, and once again anger seeps into my body when he grabs my hand. I ignore the butterflies in my stomach and I squat his hand away. His face shows a hint of sadness, but he walks behind me anyway.
A moment later I lace my fingers with his, and he smiles at me. I know he's confused, but so am I. We walk together hand-in-hand, doing a HHWW (holding hands while walking), when I suddenly jerk my hand away from him. He whimpers, yes whimpers like a puppy, but doesn't say anything. Next thing I know I pull him into a hug, and he smiles widely, almost creepily. I ignore him for the next few minutes, and he tries to get my attention. I notice him, then I push away again. Trust me, this is how I normally am. Confusing? Yes. But before you start throwing rocks at me for being cruel to him, hear me out.
Let me start from the beginning. I was and is currently a hopeless romantic. From the ripe age of four, Disney has filled my mind with thoughts of a prince on a white horse. I had my first crush when I was five, and until now I know his name. I loved pictures of married couples, and I even kept a picture of my parent's wedding in a "treasure box". I grew up seeing my parents in love, and I always wanted something like that. I had a few crushes along the way to high school (like 10 maybe?), and I made my first love story at 11. I loved to day dream of being swept off my feet, by some handsome rich guy. I even made a whole checklist about what I wanted in a guy. Disney does that to kids. So I bet you're wondering how that girl became this bitter almost-lady?
If some of you have read about my post on bullies, they were one of the factors. A lot of people ridiculed my thoughts of love, but it wasn't the reason I despise it. When I reached high school, I began to read more mature novels, and in plain language I was exposed to the heartbreaks of love. Seeing my friends fall in and out of love, I began to doubt it. But a part of me still believed in love. Little did I know that small spark of optimism in me though I was faced with reality shaped my personality of being a realist optimist. And when I felt my first heartbreak, I was a bit dramatic. I forced, yes, forced, myself to cry, listened to sad songs and I wrote. After a few minutes I felt pathetic, and I mentally promised myself to try to not be that pathetic again. That's when I kind of numbed my heart from love, yet still believing that it existed. A complete paradox, but hey, life isn't a straight line.
And so you could imagine a sappy romantic who cried over sad novels, who wears her heart on her sleeve, be so negative when it came to love. A few years more I experienced more heartbreaks, a lot of them self-inflicted, but I didn't cry over them that much. That was until I fell in love with someone. Someone who I'd frantically catch before hitting the ground, after pushing him off the balcony.
to get more imagination on what I do to the poor boy, here's the exaggerated version.
p.s., i love adam levine. :D