I stumbled for you.
Not fell. You know what it’s like when I fall for someone, and judging by how put together I am now, I’m going to guess that I have not yet fallen.
I’ve known you for 17 months. You’ve been one of my best friends for almost six.
Hmm. Yeah, I guess I would call you one of my best friends. I haven’t really labeled people as a “best friend” since my last one went to Russia. But in terms of who knows me best, you’re definitely in the top five.
Anyway. I’m sorry I stumbled. Almost. I’m sorry if I stumbled because of all the people who told us we should be together, I’m sorry if I stumbled because I wanted to move on with my life, but I’m not sorry if I stumbled because of the amazing person you are. And I hope it’s because of the latter reason that I’m in this situation.
You’ve changed my standards. I actually feel comfortable around you, except for maybe when you are judging the semester-old garlic I keep in my apartment. I actually feel like I can tell you anything. For that reason I’m not scared of posting this letter on the internet lest you find it, because I’ve already told you all of these thoughts. I can actually talk to you for ages. Not just for one night, a week, or a month. I’m constantly learning new things about you and about myself from our conversations. Laughter actually comes naturally with you. I’m not bored with you nor constantly trying to make sure I have something witty to say during pauses.
(With reservation, I’m going to use the word “need”. I really dislike it when people say that they ‘need’ their partners. I think that’s too much pressure to put on an individual. Sure, for some situations, you really do need another person, but I’m saying “need” with a disclaimer: I’m using it more as a phrase in Hebrew “ כדאי לי” which better translates somewhere between “I should” and “it would be in my best interest if I…”. But let’s face it. This is a blog post, and “need” sounds cooler.)
I’m not going to say that I need you. I’m already afraid that I have inflicted a wound on our friendship by admitting that I have stumbled and I am not going to hinder the healing process by saying such a dramatic statement. But I will say that perhaps I need someone like you.
Perhaps I need someone who, like you, acknowledges the dating game, and the need to balance perceived levels of interest, but still seems to play the game as little as possible. Perhaps I need someone who has a goal for his life that he is actively working for. Perhaps I need someone who I don’t need to teach “How to be in a Relationship 101”. Perhaps I need someone who is ‘wise’. Perhaps I need someone who is actually open about his opinions towards harsh topics. Someone who is open to being randomly texted things such as “I actually do have a sauce pan!” with no context. Perhaps I need someone with an exquisite eye for beauty like you. Someone as interesting as you. Someone like you.
Now before you start thinking that I’m about to quote Adele lyrics, I’ll complete my sentence to say: Perhaps I need someone like you.
But maybe you don’t need someone like me.
I’m still growing. My plans for life are still large and far in the distance. I still don’t feel like a fully developed adult. I’m still figuring out how to balance trusting people and protecting myself. I may still be a little too content with the answer “I don’t know” because I feel that I have plenty of time to figure it out still.
You know this, because you know me. You know my strengths and my weaknesses even though you are still learning about me more each day. Maybe that’s why you say nothing when I tell you about my emotions concerning our situation.
Maybe you know.
You know that while I need someone like you, you perhaps don’t need someone like me.