What he doesnt know will kill you
What He Doesn’t Know Will Kill You
You met him a few months ago, and somehow he managed to seep into your subconscious like that "Suga how you get so fly" song. Just like you have no clue who the hell sings it, you don’t know why he’s there. But he is, whether you like it or not. You know his cell phone, his room phone. You can dial his Aunt Doreen’s house in West Springfield (where he goes to do his laundry every two weeks) faster than you can peck-out 911. But he doesn’t know.
His screenname, that generic one with his first name followed by three to five random numbers or UMass, has its own category at the top of your buddy list. Not only do you know what a "Buddy Alert" is, you’ve rigged your computer to play "Fat Guy in a Little Coat" from "Tommy boy" every time his screenname changes from gray to black. Then his away message comes down, and you have a decision to make. To IM or not to IM? These are the ridiculous games that you play on a daily basis. But he doesn’t know.
He’s it. All right, so maybe not "it" it. Not necessarily Mr. Right, but closer to Mr. Right-up-there-with-Zac Efron-and-Jesse McCartney-on-your-list-of-people-you’d-give-anything-to-be-stranded-with-on-a-broken-down-elevator. But it’s about more than that. When is it ever about more than that? Never. Not like frilly white dress, overpriced catering, embarassing drunken in-laws more, but closer to UMass sweatpants, two D.P. Dough Roni Zonies, a futon and a movie you have no interest in seeing more. But he doesn’t know.
He’s gorgeous, but gorgeous is an understatement. More like you’re startled every time you see him because you notice something new in a "Where’s Waldo" sort of way. More like you can’t stop writing third grade run-on sentences because you can’t remotely begin to describe something…someone…so inherently amazing. But you’re a writer. You can describe anything. That’s what you do: pictures to words, events to words, words to even better words. But nothing seems right. More like you’re afraid that if you stare at him too long, you’ll prove your parents right: that yes, your face will stick that way. But you wouldn’t mind.
You wouldn’t mind that the questioning, "Hello?" on the other end makes you want to smile and throw up at the same time. You wouldn’t mind worrying about what to get him for his birthday and spending $300 when you only have $17.50 and a Triple-A card to your name. You wouldn’t mind that he left your TV on and the blaring infomercials wake you up at 4 a.m. … because it gives you a chance to watch him sleep. You don’t mind that you’ve slipped up twice when you were hammered and hinted at how you feel, but he was too drunk to remember. So he doesn’t know.
Sure, he’s cute, but it’s about more than that. You two connect. Anything you throw at him, he can throw right back. You figured out what was going on in that predictable head of his in under five minutes, but something tells you his heart would take about five years.
You remember everything he’s ever said to you, and when that freaks him out you blaim it on your photographic memory (which is a lie, you have a 2.7 GPA). You can’t remember your teaching assistant’s name, and you cant remember that your Puffton rent check was due four days ago, yet you remember the middle name of the kid who tripped him in fifth grade and gave him that cute little scar on his shoulder. Maybe it’s because you actually listen when he talks. When do you actually listen? Never. But he doesn’t know.
But he has a girlfriend. The girl is a tool, and you are not. She has no redeeming qualities, and you have about 38, even when you’re hung over. You could kick her butt, and you’ve never been in a fight in your life. She treats him like crap, and you would treat him like the God he believed himself to be on Halloween in 1998.
But he loves her. She wouldn’t know what she had even if he called her up and dumped her, but somehow he still loves her. And somehow he still doesn’t know.
Then, out of nowhere, he calls her up and dumps her. He comes to you. You’ve been there before, so you seem like the smartest girl on earth. He cries, but your corny half-joke, half-compliment somehow gets a smile out of him that almost makes you feel ashamed you’re the only one around who gets to witness it. It looks like you might make him realize that all girls don’t deserve to have rocks thrown at them.
But nothing changes. He doesn’t know. You get that library elevator feeling in your stomach that he’ll never know. You get that feeling that you’ll be forced to write a cheesy Collegian coluimn about him that makes "Sleepless in Seattle" look like "Girls Gone Wild".
You go to sleep. You wake up. He doesn’t know. You’re not in love. You’re not obsessed. You blame it on the fact that you just need to feel loved, but still, it’s about more than that. It would just be nice if once in your life, things worked out the way you wanted them to.
