Apathy - A monologue written by me, for me

Apathy

She smiled at me, like any stranger would. For a brief moment, my attention was caught, magnetically drawn to her eyes. I didn’t know this would be the moment I fell in love until long after it happened.

Our first official meeting was an encounter of pure luck. We talked about everything and nothing, the conversation flowed effortlessly. I still remember now the first time I heard her laugh: so light, melodic, and beautiful.

She had her way of making everyone around her feel special, and in those brief moments, I felt like I was the center of her world. As time passed, we became friends. We shared jokes, stories, and dreams. I learned about her hobbies, her fears, her hopes. She was a near-open book, yet there were still pages I longed to read. Her presence was intoxicating, and I found myself actively seeking her out, craving the tiny moments we spent together.

Life got complicated, and at some point, a kind of switch happened. I still don’t entirely know why – and I might never know – but she simply wouldn’t talk to me anymore.

The change was abrupt. Missed calls, delayed texts, canceled plans. I told myself she was busy, that she had a lot on her plate. But as the days turned into weeks, the distance grew. She had slipped away, and there was nothing I could do. I endlessly replayed our last conversations; searching for any reason for her sudden withdrawal. I found nothing. I tried to reach out, to attempt to bridge the gap, but my efforts were met with silence on the other end. The more she blatantly ignored me, the more desperate I became. I couldn’t understand why she was pulling away. I had been there for her, right? I supported her, cared for her… But I guess that wasn’t enough for her. I wasn't enough.

The sentiment still stood for long after, but I began to forget. I eventually forgot how much I needed her. For a while, I lived without her, in peace. Until I found her again. Until I fell again. She still wasn’t talking to me – but that was okay. I kept telling myself that love is appreciation, not possession, but I couldn’t entirely believe it. I wanted her. I wanted her smile and her eyes. I wanted her voice and her laugh. I wanted to spend my life with her. I wanted to know that she was there. I wanted, no – needed – the comfort of her presence.

It’s strange how the mind works. How it clings to memories, distorts them, and accentuates their significance. Each moment with her played on a loop in my head, like a movie reel that never stopped. Her smile, her laugh, the way she looked at me when we first met – these moments were my solace and my torment. I often wondered if she remembered them the same way I did. Did they mean anything, or were they just meaningless moments in a sea of other interactions to her?

Every night, I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying our conversations. I dissected every word, every gesture. I searched for clues, any sign that maybe, just maybe, she had felt something too. But the more I searched, the more I doubted. My mind was a cacophony of thoughts, constantly torn between hope and despair. One moment, I was convinced that she actually cared: the next, I was suffocating in the absolute certainty that she didn’t.

As I forced more small conversations, they started becoming more natural. More fluid. Around her, I was stuck in a state of pure limerence. Swallowed by the quicksand of obsession; the more I struggled, the farther I sank. God, I loved her. There was nothing simpler and yet nothing more complicated than this. She was everything to me, her priceless heart, her beautiful face…

Limerence is a word I discovered in my constant quest to finally understand the tumult inside my brain. The word so happened to perfectly describe my state of being: a state where every thought, every heartbeat was consumed by her. It was both amazing and exhausting. I was a prisoner of my mind and emotions, chained by an invisible bond that I couldn’t hope to break. I wanted to tell her, to pour my heart out to her, but fear held me back. A fear of rejection, a fear of losing even the small connection we had.

In my desperation, I clung to any interaction, no matter how minute. I would find excuses to talk to her, to be near her. A casual remark, a question about a book she was holding, anything to hear her voice again. Slowly, I felt like our conversations became more natural, less forced. But the uncomfortable tension never left. I was always on edge, trying to gauge her mood, her interest, or lack thereof.

Around her, I felt constantly both elated and petrified. Each interaction was a horrible high-stakes game, rigged in her favor, mind you, where the slightest misstep could shatter my already fragile hope. I was addicted to the rush, to the brief but potent moments of connection that left me begging for more. She was my drug, and I was entirely hooked.

She didn’t take to me kindly, at times, and that made me hate myself. When she hated me, I loathed myself. When she ignored me, I ignored myself. I couldn’t stop.

There were times when she was distant, even cold. Her indifference cut deeper than anything she could say to me. I would over-analyze her every move, every look, searching for signs of disapproval or disdain. When she was kind, I felt like I could conquer the world. But when she wasn’t… I don’t want to talk about it.

I lost who I was; my identity was intertwined with her perception of me. Her moods dictated mine. Her actions controlled my emotions. I was a puppet; my strings pulled by her every whim. And the worst part was, she didn’t even know. She could never know, or fully come to realize it, even if I told her. She was completely unaware of the power she held over me, the impact that her indifference had.

She wasn’t careful with this power. She ignorantly broke my heart over and over, again and again. But I loved it. I didn’t love my heart broken, but I loved falling in love again. She wasn’t there for me, but she was just… there. And I told myself that was enough.

I often found myself wondering if she knew, if she had any inkling of the mess she caused. But I never asked, never revealed the depth of my feelings. I was too afraid of the answer. Instead, I clung to the hope that one day, she would see me, truly see me, and realize what we could be. Who I could be.

Each heartbreak was a fresh wound, but also a chance for my mind to start over. I would fall in love with her again and again, each time convincing myself that this time, it wouldn’t hurt as much. Hoping and praying that this time she would notice me. Choose me.

I faked apathy, but she didn’t have to.

Never quite satisfied with how little we interacted, how little she cared, I took the opportunities I could to talk with her. I overthought things. Constantly planning out entire conversations with her before I even had them: Should I say “hi” or “hello”? Did I speak too much? Did I speak enough? I didn’t make her laugh. I’m not funny. I don’t know why I try to be funny. Why do I try at all?

The overthinking was constant. It was like a second voice in my head, always questioning, always doubting. I rehearsed our conversations a hundred times before they even happened; trying to predict her responses. Hopelessly trying to find the perfect words that would make her see me differently. But real life was never as neat as my rehearsals.

The conversations never went as planned – and when they didn’t, it hit me hard. I was hurt, devastated even, each time she was even slightly more negative than expected. At the same time, I was elated and absolutely filled to the brim with joy and whimsy when she said or did something I perceived as remotely ‘nice’, which was all too rare.

I was infatuated with her. I was crazy for her. I didn’t want to be, but I was. I loved her so much I didn’t have room for myself. But I didn’t want to have room for myself. I only wanted her. I went in cycles with myself, like a dog chasing its tail. Thinking there was a chance, thinking there wasn’t. Thinking I loved her, thinking it was all a mistake. Thinking I was okay, knowing I wasn’t. I didn’t care. She was worth it; I knew she was. I loved her so much, she had to be worth it…

And then, faster than I could say “I love you,” she was gone, and so was I.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. I knew that if I was different, she would love me. If I was funnier. Smarter. Better looking. If we restarted today, I know I could do better.

But please don’t believe me, because I also know that I’m wrong. I knew that I was wrong the whole time.

I know that If I met her again today, she would simply smile at me, like any stranger would.

I fake apathy, but not very well.