I met a boy (again)

I met a boy.

You’re probably rolling your eyes.

Fair.

It’s not the first time I’ve said this.

And I wish I could say it’s different now,

but I don’t know.

I’m disappointed in myself too,

so you don’t have to be.

Anyway, it happened over the previous weekend.

I wasn’t expecting anything.

I never really do.

I’ve learned not to.

But colour me surprised when I heard someone was interested in getting to know me.

And get this, it started because I had a “sexy” playlist.

He says that word a lot.

I started talking to him, and it felt like something

I hadn’t experienced before.

Although, if I’m being real, maybe I have experienced

it one too many times and now it just feels like a sickness.

Like some sort of love epidemic.

So far, nothing has really happened.

We’ve just talked.

A bit.

But he’s funny.

Like, actually funny.

Not the performative type.

The kind that sneaks up on you.

And I don’t know, I think the funny ones always win.

At least with me.

He has a great sense of style.

And I’m a sucker for fashion.

Plus, he reads.

Like he wants to know things.

Not to show off, just to know.

He writes, too.

Like, he genuinely wants to learn and feed his mind.

That has to mean he’s thoughtful, right?

Introspective?

That’s what it seems like to me.

And that means something to me.

It always has.

He’s stoic, or at least he pretends to be.

But somehow, it’s working.

And he has sisters.

That feels important for some reason.

He says he’s shy and boring.

And maybe he is.

But that’s not a bad thing.

I’m extremely shy.

And honestly, boring in a way that almost feels pathetic.

I'm really shy,

but not in the cute way.

In the way that makes you feel like you’re always on the verge of disappearing.

I don’t think I have any redeeming qualities.

I barely have interests.

I'm struggling to keep up with my few hobbies.

I don’t have any specialties.

At least, I’m good at overthinking and

memorizing lyrics to sad songs.

I like what I like.

Same movies.

Same music.

Same everything.

I think that’s why I enjoy talking to him.

Because he listens like it’s not a waste of time.

Like he’s not waiting to talk over me.

Like he hears the parts I’m not saying.

The parts I'm unable to put into words.

And that’s rare.

It means that I don't have to be more than I already am,

I can just be my shy, boring self.

I don’t know if anything will come out of it.

I’m already preparing for it not to.

It feels safer that way.

I don’t know.

I mean, I want to be better.

More expressive.

More open.

Because apparently I’m dull.

But I don’t even know where to start.

God, this feels pathetic.

That’s all.

For now.

Though sometimes I wonder

if saying something out loud makes it more real, or less.

And if this is just another sentence

I’ll rewrite in my head a hundred times,

but never say again.