Bittersweet High-School Hearts

I’m finally sweet again. Like I was when I turned sixteen.

My mother had ordered a custom-made birthday cake in the shape of a book for my birthday party. On it were little illegible words and a drawing of a small line waving like heartbeat signals on a hospital monitor. It conjured the image of a girl voluntarily skipping a precious heartbeat to dance with the waves — being cautious enough not to involuntarily breathe in the ocean. I cared about my life and had no reason not to.

At least, not for another year…

Carefully dried on the top layer of the cake was black frosting that read, “Do what makes your soul happy.” It was my idea. I had really hoped that phrase would be written in calligraphy, because I felt that the simple handwriting mirrored my imperfections… Was that it? Was that the trigger, the wave that would crumble down everything in its way? Was that all I was? The girl who would wreak havoc the next year? Am I… her? The girl who slept in two particular beds for more than a few nights?

You came to me and turned down the invitation, of course.

I already had a feeling you wouldn’t come. You’d never lay eyes on the cake. Deep down, I still hoped my letters would have been prettier for you.

If you did love me, you had the opportunity to say it to my face.
If you didn’t — yet again.

Instead, you led me on. You gave me presents, but you couldn’t be there for my birthday party.

I once came across something: “If they truly love you, you will know.” But I don’t know what I don’t know… Do I, sweetheart? Truly, it doesn’t matter… But deep down, I wish I could be what the fancy dashes, embellished uppercase letters, and delicate curves represented:

Someone not polluted by fury that you couldn’t go the last mile.

A person who wasn’t disappointed that you turned down the invitation.

She who is not shaken by your rejection, nor afraid of its connotation.

A girl good enough. A girl writ in calligraphy.
A girl deserving of you.