I skipped my meeting that week. Even though the club was losing members like a subtle depression, I knew that if I were there, his being there too would make me unhappy and silent for most of the fun. The room had couches and cushy chairs. It was easy to get comfortable--easy to get comfortable around him, easy to be charmed. I was going out of my mind, rediscovering the unhappiness of love I'd sworn off for such a long time. On an expensive sort of comfort in the room I would sit. I could be there, watching him talk, thirstily swallowing the water fountain of everything beautiful and loveable in him, feeling my heart unraveling like a rug made out of skin with edges pulled by teasing verbs and flashing, laughing brown eyes. This wasn't in my plan, and this wasn't the way things were supposed to work. I was going to be happy, dammit. Everything was going to be all right.

He broke up with his girlfriend. With that out of the way, there was no further mandate that I wanted to see for us to "talk". Moodiness I never figured him for, and when he had lowered his face in cloudy resignation and snapped with an apologetic gruff on the edge of his voice, when he had sighed and picked up the phone to return female messages--then I knew it could be true. I was moody now. I could do no communication; I asked no one to talk to me. My way is different: I avoid when I am unhappily in love. Cowardice is a nasty quality, but when I don't think I should get involved, or when things go sour, when too many other fish glut the sea--I bail. Results: eventual recovery, incredible creative energy, and studious, puzzled, questioning searches of my face for clues to unlock my behavior.

Why don't I just explain myself? If I was to run (or walk) to him and say, "I can't be around you anymore, I am trying to get over you, see, . . . " he would feel awkward, and I would feel embarrassed. After ditching the restrictive girlfriend, who has kept him from dating girls like me for several months, he does not need someone else with an eye out for a boyfriend to sigh at him when he walks by. I can't let him feel obligated towards me, or let him feel angry that I would design on his freedom, or let him feel apathy towards me. Although every time I've seen him recently he's bestowed some eye wrestling, I have little idea of what it means. But I hope he's thinking about me. Deep within myself I want him to figure me out.

Last week I fell in love with him. The dear boy was sleepy, depleted of energy to keep him completely out of his lunch plate, and sitting intimately next to me. A few words were all he could manage among mouthfuls. I was touched by references to the weekend party we had attended, and he mentioned my letter. Interesting compliments. Caressed my back in secret as he picked up leaving. All the rest of that day, and for days successive, I was in a static-filled sputtering trance of cuteness and misery. Oh, to be so adored, my ego whispered. Rationale rebuked me hesitantly, as one with bad news: "You haven't seen him any for the rest of the week . . . ."

The weekend, when he was searching for a chance to party and I was looking for a way out, conspired against me. He broke up with his girl after that significant lunch. He was going out, but not on a date, with a friend. All the hot little girls were getting their hot little date planners in hand. I was spending quality time with my friends. An insufficient amount of girl power, though, couldn't combat that squeezed feeling inside when he and his entourage passed through, fresh from drinking.

As for weeks, I hid my head under my hair when not talking to him. It was agony seeing him think about other girls, talk to them, hear him talk about them. Friends like me, I thought, he honestly doesn't need. While he is released again into the candy store, I am made of obscure confectionery ingredients and am trying desperately to blend in with the licorice.

But he sees me moping. He left a message on the door, indicating he'd come by after I missed the meeting; I do think he thinks something is up. If he asks me about it, I honestly don't know what to tell him.

Trying to fall out of love against the wishes of your own heart, your closest friends, and against the mandate of your soul, allowing for his unknown feelings, sucks. Really, really sucks. I may flourish in misery, but maybe I'd like to stagnate for a while instead in happy apathy. I could be wrong about him--I could be next and highest on his wish list--but I sincerely doubt it. I regret the feelings I've had already. I don't want to be in love. I want to be buried in his arms, in some dear oblivion. Thinking and feeling hurts--keeping it to myself hurts--and to complain seems selfish. If I'm lucky, my mind will win over my heart. I've been through this before and I know it will last; the injury is unavoidable. All I can hope for, I guess, is a lessening of the pain over time.