There’s a girl you like. The feelings you have are fireworks, blooming into beautiful colors. The way she smiles with all her imperfect teeth is perfect to you. The way she animatedly talks with her hands about her passions is adorable. The way she absent-mindedly plays with her hair, brushing her bangs makes you grin.
Although you never confess, you’re resolved to tell her in email. You’ve been on the same email thread for the community listserv for the last year, and you like how she hits “reply to all.” She likes yoga, wanted to purchase a Toyota Prius, and has ten-gallon fish tanks to offer.
You’ve spoken at community gatherings, which is better than crushes in the past. The courage to introduce yourself all those months ago paid off.
Eagerly, you type, asking how she’s doing with coronavirus. You mention how you miss neighborhood barbeques, before moving on to the point.
Simply put, you confess. You put your heart in, bearing yourself to the person you like. It’s freeing, being able to finally speak the truth.
You leave it open – you ask for an answer when she’s ready, and that you’re willing to wait. You sign it off with just your name.
You look it over for review, once, twice, change a few words – and send it off. You breathe a sigh of relief now that it’s done.
The next morning, you excitedly and anxiously open your email. There’s nothing. You feel a mite of disappointment before chalking it up to her processing it.
This doesn’t stop you from repeatedly checking your email. Sadly, there’s still no response when you go to bed.
On the second day, you still don’t have a reply. You tell yourself the same thing; maybe she’s taking time. But during the day, you receive an email from the daily listserv, and your heartbeat quickens as you see her name.
I’m interested in the free chairs. Where should I pick them up?
Your heart sinks. You try to shake it off – a reply interested in chairs takes less time than to a confession. It still hurts, but you don’t lose hope yet.
Two weeks go by; no reply. You’ve resigned yourself and decide to go to the store for several tubs of ice cream for a sad romcom movie marathon for the grieving process.
You’re in the frozen foods section examining flavors, when you hear a familiar voice call out.
“Hey, you! How have you been?”
You fight the urge to flee. You don’t want to make eye contact, scared you’ll start crying. But her voice is chipper as normal, so you turn around.
“Hey… I’m doing okay,” you say, surprised at your composure. “You?”
“I’m alright despite all this ‘rona stuff,” she jokes. Her brow furrows at your silence. “You sure everything’s okay?”
You bite your tongue, and you’re thankful for your mask’s protection. But you decide to tell the truth. “I didn’t receive a response to my email, so I thought we weren’t talking anymore.”
You can see confusion in her eyes. For the first time in several days, hope appears. “What email?”
“I sent an email about two and a half weeks ago,” you explain.
“So weird! Maybe it went to my spam?” She ponders and takes her phone out to check.
“You can check later, if you want!” You say, flustered. “Just let me know if you didn’t get it, and I’ll re-send it.”
“Okay, sounds good!” She says, pocketing her phone again. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“No worries,” you happily say. “I’m glad we ran into each other.”
“Yeah, me too!” She exclaims, giving you a wave. “I’ll be on my way. Talk soon!”
“Sure, sounds good,” you smile, but your mask doesn’t reflect it. You go home with only one ice cream, looking forward to her response.