In the age of fourteen, I thought that looking into the eyes of the boy I liked was as easy as putting a love letter into his desk drawer. It took only less than thirty seconds for me to think about taking a step closer to him without any hesitancy, then I did it. I did come over his desk and I did look at him in the eyes very deeply that my eyes could have popped out. I could do it. I was dauntless, I was a girl.
Now, it is not as simple as what I did when I was fourteen. I have no idea what the heck is wrong with me. It feels like I have no strength to fight against my anxiety and nervousness. Every time I try to be bold to take the very first action, I get this brunt inside my tummy. Each and every time I push myself toward him, my chest feels like it is going to blow out. My lips cannot even open up to say any word. My body literally happens to be very rigid. I myself cannot figure out why.
Him. The guy who is standing by the grey wallpapered wall.
The beat of the party moves him so fast. He dances on the same spot on which he has been standing all this long. With that smile blossoming over his face, he moves his hands along with the music. His blue eyes are sometimes closed to feel the oscillation. What an intoxicating spectacle. I can see him blink at his friend who yells his name. His soaked red hair tells me that he had a shower just before he came here. His un-ironed clothes sign that he is too busy this week to take care of the laundry. Every movement he makes has driven me crazy. Me, the girl who is sitting on a wooden chair in the corner of the room, do not get bored of watching that hand-dancing guy secretly. It is not something I can find every day, anyway. I believe he does not have any idea that he has been stalked since he came to this room. As always, I get no rigidity to stand up and walk to him just to say hi. So yeah, I am just sitting on this chair.
People say, a woman is not to start. I guess that is why I made up my mind to wait.
To wait him to say hi to me first, to ask me “What is up?”, and to invite me to have some coffee after this party. Anyhow, here I am just waiting for him to go ahead first.
Why did people invent this proverb saying a woman is not to start? It is resentful.
It has been two years that I have been watching that guy. The guy who does not even notice me. He knows nothing about my existence but I know everything about his modest life. Well I am telling you, he is an unmarried-settled guy who works for a broadcasting agency as a creative director. Yes, a creative director. However, if he is that creative like his work position, he would absolutely look for the girl who keeps sending him a bar of chocolate once a week, who secretly calls his phone at home every night –who is actually me. He never tries to find me and there is nothing to do with it. A woman is not to start, remember?
Everything is not as easy as it seems anymore. In the age of twenty five, I am getting into the stage of losing audacity. Love has robbed all of the mettle laid inside me and left me with a heap of bloomer instead. I guess I will just sit on this comfortable chair until the party is over, and watch him moving his hands on that spot until he happens to take an eye on me, then notices me some day or other. I am fainthearted, I am a woman and a woman is not to start.