Morning After #2: I Wanted to Tell You, But Somehow I Couldn’t

I’ve seen this play out a million times in my mind.

We’re on a small boat floating at sea. A dead silence surrounds us. Tikis hover far in the distance. There’s no waves, but palm trees are slightly waving. Our frozen drinks have umbrellas, just how you like them. You, well, look just like you. Glowing. I can’t see your eyes because we’re wearing sunglasses, but your smile says all I need to know. When I glance over, the sun dances off your nose—reflecting at the perfect angle each time, reminding me that having courage in that moment was a good decision.

The question lurking in my mind is...Will I find the courage in that moment? 

I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I just want you to know all the other failed attempts have made this moment harder than it should be. Now, each one stacked on top of each other builds a wall that I can barely see over. I just want the opportunity to show you I exist. Isn’t that what we all wish?

But are you one of the thousands of eyes I’ve walked by—a stranger of the night waiting to be struck by serendipity? Or have we met before—are you someone I’ve thought about while lying in bed at night? My body is calm while my mind is tortured with possibility. It’s haunting to think about, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking about it. 

Really, all I want to do is tell you. Each time I look to my left you’re there. You know, floating with me. How do you say that in one line to someone you’ve never met before?

I wanted to tell you, but somehow I couldn’t.

*This article is part of the ongoing Morning After series: short, reflective pieces on thoughts, feelings, and ideas about life. I write them the “morning after” a night out.