Hopeless Romantic

I feel threatened when people know me too well.

Yesterday during a Facebook chat with my friend, she told me something that I thought I knew to be true, but I never really put into words before.

Roughly quoted, she said that past my prickly and cynical exterior, I was the biggest, most hopeless romantic.

Dang it, she was right.

She’s right because I remember almost every word from my conversations with him. I count down the days until I’ll see him next, but I act like I don’t.

My taste in just about everything gives me away. It’s no wonder that my favorite poets are Romanticism Era poets, that I love Chopin and Debussy, that most of my works take a turn for the love-struck.

I act like I don’t need anyone nearby and that the only use I would have for a boyfriend would be to have someone warm up my hands- my hands are always freezing- and I joke that I’ll marry an eighty-year-old billionaire with a heart condition. I let logic rule me. Head first, then heart.

Because I’m terrified.

As I’ve said before, most of my romantic endeavors have ended in disaster, even the ones where the feelings were reciprocated. I learned young and quick that people don’t usually hold up their end, or at least the ones that I trusted by mistake. I put all my effort into being independent so I wouldn’t have to rely on anyone else. This sounds like the premise for a gaudy Taylor Swift song, but it’s true.

I want to say that this time is different, but I can’t confirm it. I can’t pin him down completely and that scares me. Everyone says that’s part of being in love, to be vulnerable, but I’m scared to take that leap. I’m scared that if I jump that he’ll drop me, like everyone else before him.

But let’s hope I make the jump before he decides to walk away.

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