On Crushes

A friend keeps reminding me that I’m boy crazy. I definitely used to be. I used to wear my heart on my sleeve and have at least one crush per month. I would whisper my secret crush to anyone who would listen because I’m bad at keeping secrets and trusted most people back then. But I’ve learned my lesson. When you tell middle school friends about your crush, they’ll yell it out at the lunch table and you’ll be mocked by said crush in freshmen English.

Crushes tell you they’ll break up with their girlfriend for you, and you think that, first of all, he’s telling the truth, and second that this is how healthy relationships can start. Crushes draw gross pictures of you on the whiteboard. Crushes ignore you, crushes are gay, crushes just straight up don’t like you.

So I don’t have crushes anymore. I haven’t allowed myself to have a crush for quite a while. And life is simple; lonely sometimes, but simple. Sometimes I miss the bountiful hope that came with each new crush, the smiles and whispers and blushes. But most of the time I am happy that the hope I have now is not dependent on whether or not a boy smiles at me.

I have not given up on love, but I have given up on fake love and substitutes for true intimacy. I’d rather have nothing than synthetic puppy love. My next crush will be more than a crush, more than infatuation. My next crush will not be a crush at all, it will be mutual connection on a deeper level. Because crushes aren’t real, so I’ll wait for true love.

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