Unrequited Crushes

WE’VE ALL BEEN THERE, HAVEN’T WE?

I reckon we’ve all sat in bed late at night, trying desperately to conjure up a picture of a romantic interest in our heads which is compelling and entertaining enough that we want to fall asleep thinking about it. We’ve all been there, thinking to ourselves that—yes, at long last—we have managed to find ourselves fancying someone who actually (miraculously) meets the criteria and somehow is genuinely attractive. The whole package (in our heads, especially before bed). It becomes a bit of an infatuation, the notion that—maybe, just maybe—you’ve finally stumbled upon someone worth a second glace, someone who is interesting enough to hold your interest, someone who you could actually see yourself wanting to spend time with and not just look at with googly eyes.

Things get particularly sticky and admittedly just a bit awkward when that dreaded age-old realisation comes around, as it always tends to do, that they just don’t fancy you. You realise—after a prolonged period of envisioning what the pair of you would look like together, a few too many Instagram deep dives, and way too much Taylor Swift—that you can’t force something into being, no matter how hard you try.

Yikes.

It’s so nice in that in-between period, when the possibility of what if consumes your day-to-day.

There’s something so endearing about that ubiquitously experienced crushing-hard phase that makes us all want to dress up that bit nicer in a somewhat desperate bid to impress, should there be a chance encounter; it makes us psychoanalyse every last intricate detail of a 20-second back-and-forth and wonder, later that night, how you could’ve gone about it better; the briefest moment of eye contact constricts your heart and drags it to that well-known pit at the bottom of your stomach. These are, in some ways, what I love the most about a crush. Every interaction becomes laden with anticipation and excitement. We all want to feel seen; to feel like we are recipients of a second glance. A crush, especially a sort of ambiguous one (where you can’t quite tell if they fancy you back) keeps that little romantic spark alive inside my withering, cold, bitter-old-lady heart.

The whole thing is fantastic and heart wrenching. Bridget Jones’s love for Mark Darcy and Daniel Cleaver is so relatable for precisely the fact that we have all been there. We all just inherently understand each nail-biting transmutable moment of maybe-flirting and perceived embarrassment because, more often than not, we have experienced some variation of it ourselves. 

It’s so thrilling.

Taylor Swift has spent however many years of her life trying to put it all into words, for good reason.

Emily Henry, Lucy Score, and Elsie Silver have written novels on end about the rousing hope of finding the Perfect Man.
Their works are popular because, naturally, we all want to have a slice of the “what if” of it all, the pondering, the curiosity, the yearning. 

Stomach-dropping crushes are what keep me investing so much of myself into the notion of love. Without it, what are we? Not in a “love saves the day” type of way. But more in a sense that, without all of this, we’d be devoid of a facet of life that is all-consuming and incapable of encapsulation. 

But, as with many of the crushes I’ve lived and watched die, there comes a time when you must acknowledge that your crushing isn’t reciprocated. That, as the old adage goes,

he’s just not that into you.

That’s if he was ever into you at all. We can all be a bit delusional with our crushes, I know I’ve certainly fancied some boys and—later—men* who I thought were picking up what I was putting down. Lo and behold, I was sorely mistaken. 

*marked by age, not maturity. 

And it is sore. You longingly romanticise the prospect of having a reciprocated attraction to the person you (at the time) think is the most beautiful person to walk the earth. Only, with time, and maybe a few read-and-ignored texts, you realise maybe you misread the signs. Maybe they don’t like you. Maybe they’re just like every other preceding boy and pave the way for more to come. 

It’s easy to get overcome with the idea that you’re not good enough. Clearly, it must be you, not him. You’re not enough. PFFT. GIRL, puh-lease.
I’m guilty of this self-deprecation when I feel down and out about unrequited attraction to someone. Its easy to fall into a rabbit hole, but with time and a good few wines, you can look at it from a rational and balanced perspective and remember that:

(1): people don’t just automatically realise that you’re attracted to them because you lie awake at night thinking about them.

(2): you’re more than enough. it’s just, unfortunately, going to take time to find the right one.

(3): i hate when people say that last one to me, but it is likely true.

(4): the alternative is spinsterhood, and maybe a cat or a dog or some sort of unconditionally loving pet, which doesn’t seem that bad.

(5): you could also just actually grow a pair and lay it out on the line. although, that’s scary. you wouldn’t see me doing it because I'm a self-proclaimed raging puss. but good luck if you give it a go. let me know how it goes.

Also…

If the supposed man of your dreams has left you on read for however long, it’s not because they’re playing hard to get. Maybe they’re just not as nice as you thought they were. If they don’t pick up what you’re putting down straight away, that might be your sign to stop romanticising your future together. It ain’t happening girlfriend, you’re going to need to change Taylor Swift playlists.

REMINDER: a pretty face doesn’t make up for a terrible personality.

If they don’t respect you enough to reply to your text, don’t let yourself fall back into the same old trap of wondering what’s the matter with you… What is the problem with them? That romantic (and general common-decency) lacking should tell you everything you need to know. About them. Not you. It isn’t always time to search for microscopic flaws in the mirror, sometimes we have to tell ourselves the hard truth that they aren’t actually meeting our needs communicatively and therefore likely wouldn’t be the perfect match.

It’s a hard pill to swallow because you wish and wish and wish that it could be different because you’ve mentally invested so much time into hoping and wondering and yearning and desiring and, suddenly, all the best parts of a blooming crush have—sooner than you’d hoped—turned sour. But sometimes they just, unfortunately, aren’t the right one. No matter how hard you wish you could force it to be.

Can’t teach a fish to climb a tree;
Can’t teach a man to love you. 

I’ve learned that there’s no use being bitter or resentful or wasting any more time wondering why it didn’t work. The most valuable thing you can do for yourself in despairing moments of unrequited love is to remind yourself that the time will come for you to find the person who finds you pretty.

But, fuck, it’s shitty. 

People preach on about self-love and respect and knowing your worth and often I think it’s actually a bullshit diatribe that helps no one. But lately, I’ve come to accept that I really am going to have to wait for “the one” to show up. I can’t keep operating with faith that willing it into existence is enough. My crushes are never reciprocated nor are they everything I’d hoped for. Life unfortunately doesn’t work this way, no matter how desperately my hopeless romantic heart would like to dream it into existence. 

I seek comfort in the knowing that I am not sailing on this ship alone. Plenty more before and after me will know the pain of a one-sided crush that isn’t meant to be. It really doesn’t make it all that much better, to be honest. But, hey, it’s something. Happy Valentine’s, I guess.

Alexa, play Foolish One by Taylor Swift.