This is the blind giddiness of a relationship that I dream of having

I have many crushes.

A hallway crush, a childhood crush. A crush for half of my classes. A studio crush and a returning crush.

Most of these people haven’t spoken a word to me, and I don’t talk to them—save for a whispered question in a class or that one time I offered Studio Crush a cookie. I don’t plan on attempting to initiate any of these trivial hopes in the near future. Or any time, for that matter. Why would I risk the comfort of my loneliness for someone I know so little about? 

I wish I were pretty so I could. So there wouldn’t be any risk. 

These admirations are only musings, daydreams of someone who knows she will likely never get to experience the puppy love that she witnesses in films. I long to be loved; I yearn for the hopeless, naive infatuation of a teenage relationship. 

I see actresses on screen in love. They have easy, unwavering smiles, and they never look past the light of their relationships. They are childishly blinded by love. They are perfect; they are perfectly optimistic and compliant. 

I know it’s acting. I know it’s silly. But for some reason, I desire that love.

I want to be so full of love that vivacious energy pulses through my veins and radiates from my fingertips, casting warm rays of youthful enthusiasm everywhere I go. Maybe then, my face would carry a natural beam instead of a downturned, wistful expression. 

For some reason, I feel like a relationship might provide this feeling to me. I’m happy now. I’m grateful for everything I have—but I can’t help but be unsatisfied. I crave romance and passion and someone who would make me feel pretty. Someone who would make me feel like I didn’t have to be embarrassed of being loud or enthusiastic.

I want to be pretty enough that my excitement isn’t annoying.

Sadly, I am not the type of girl for this situation to happen. I think I am pretty. My mom says so, and my sister says so. My friends say so. But I am not pretty for a boy. Maybe it’s because I’m so tall, or too angular, or quiet, or loud, or weird. But the day I am good enough for one of my silly little crushes is the day that pigs fly. 

I’m secure in my romance-deprived life; I like having an unhurt and unbruised dignity. I’m perfectly safe in my isolation. But at what cost?

So I have a few crushes, sure. Sue me. It’s nice to think that someone might like me or at least dream about a relationship so I can act like I don’t desperately need one.