I Hope This Doesn't Find You

Why is it me? Why do you always single me out?" "Because," he says quietly. "You're the only person worth paying attention to.

You were right, Sadie Wen. I am completely, helplessly obsessed with you.

For ten years I thought I was preparing to destroy you, when really I was preparing to love you.

I want you to hold me like a grudge, keep me like a promise, haunt me like a ghost.

You have to understand...If you knew the effect you had on me, how often I think about you, the things I would do for you...I wouldn't stand a chance against you ever again. You would have taken everything from me," he goes on in a rush, like the words are burning him from within, like he has to get it out before the pain becomes overwhelming. "Not just a debating championship or some points for a test or a fancy award or a spot in a competition—but my whole heart. My pride. God, my sanity. It would all be over. You would annihilate me.

He pauses, leans closer to inspect the displays. Reaches out, as if to grab something, then retracts his hand. And starts walking all over again." After ten minutes of this, I lose my patience. "Are you here to select bread, or a future wife? What's taking so long?" HIs smile is sharp, taunting. "The latter.

I think you're obsessed with me, Sadie Wen.

Of course, if you...if you don't want to," he says into the silence, sliding his gaze away from me, "I can accept that. I won't bring it up again. I know I'm not....I know what I'm like. That I'm infuriating. And selfish. And cruel. I know I'm not perfect the way my brother is, and I manage to disappoint my parents every time. It's okay if you don't choose me, really—I never expected to be the first choice. I wouldn't blame you‚—" "I do choose you." He doesn't seem to hear me at first. He's still talking, rambling really, the words flowing out like rainwater. "I can't always say pretty things, and sometimes I tease you when really I just want you to look my way, and—wait." He stops. Even his breath freezes in his throat. "What...did you just say? Say it again." "I choose you," I say quietly, glad for the shadows concealing my flushed cheeks. For the support of the wall behind me. "You will always be my first choice, Julius Gong.

Because beneath my apprehension is the stronger, deeply ingrained need to be liked. To be accepted. To be forgiven. To be recognized as good. I'll do anything to redeem myself.

I finish underlining the date with my ruler so it's perfectly straight. This is like my version of drugs.

This whole time, it's been you, and I didn't even realize. In retrospect, it makes sense, doesn't it? In order to beat the enemy, you have to understand them intimately. You have to observe them, learn their weaknesses, memorize their every word, track their progress, predict their next move. For ten years, I thought I was preparing to destroy you, when really I was preparing to love you. All of which is to say I hope this finds you. And I hope you find me too.

I really can't stand it when people are angry at me. Like, I know it might be simple for others, but I can't focus on anything else. I can't just forget about it and go on with my own life. It's like there's something hard wedged inside my own chest. I'll always feel guilty. I'll always want to make amends.

I have all your emails memorized word for word,

What I'm realizing is that if you're quiet about the things that hurt you, people are only going to mistake your tolerance for permission.

Fix this. It's what I've always done, or tried to do. Fix the gap in my family, the holes in my life, patch everything up, smooth everything over.

Julius isn't just a boy. He's my enemy. My equal. My point of comparison. He's the one I'm constantly trying to outrun, to outsmart, to impress.

Iʼm not so familiar with vices— I like to think I have none, but if anything were to count, you would be my only one.

You had to kiss me then kick me then fill my head with your voice.

It's a challenge. This is what we do, I realize. We talk in circles. We give each other riddles, confounding clues, half answers. Everything and anything but the truth.

I have never known anybody as completely as I know you, and yet I still want to sit next to you, draw close to you, closer. I want you to tell me every story, want to listen to you speak until the night sinks in the sky and the stars fade out. I want you to hold me like a grudge, keep me like a promise, haunt me like a ghost.

I can’t always say pretty things, and sometimes I tease you when really I just want you to look my way, and—

Because I’m willing to lose everything, so long as I don’t lose you

At what point, I wonder, staring at the front door as it swings shut one last time, does something become unfixable? At what point is a tapestry riddled with so many holes and loose threads that it's impossible to patch it up again? That it deserves to be thrown away instead?

You call that a kiss?

You have to understand . . . If you knew the effect you had on me, how often I think about you, the things I would do for you . . . I wouldnʼt stand a chance against you ever again. You would have taken everything from me.

My pride. God, my sanity. It would all be over. You would annihilate me.

I note quietly that this is the twenty- fifth time he’s brought up the word Harvard in the past ten minutes. If Harvard were a ghost, he would have successfully summoned it back to life by now.

Do you want some?" I ask him, offering up the little remaining liquor to him, since it's only polite. "It doesn't taste that disgusting once you get used to it." He gently pushes the bottle back down. "No, thanks." "What do you want, then? I can give it to you?" This should be a simple enough question. Multiple choice at most. But he falters as if he's received a three-thousand-word essay prompt. Swallows. Looks away. "Nothing," he says at last. "I don't—want anything.

You have to understand . . . If you knew the effect you had on me, how often I think about you, the things I would do for you . . . I wouldn’t stand a chance against you ever again. You would have taken everything from me,” he goes on in a rush, like the words are burning him from within, like he has to get it out before the pain becomes overwhelming. “Not just a debating championship or some points for a test or a fancy award or a spot in a competition—but my whole heart. My pride. God, my sanity. It would be all over. You would annihilate me.