And If I Weren't Trying to Assemble It in the Dark (10/30/08 Thursday)

I may not be convinced of the letter's power to flush these emotional toxins, but I feel a more dire need than ever to complete it and give it a chance. Just when I think the torture can't get worse, I show up for work. I can't talk to Julie, I can barely look at her. Every day I determine to change that, but I look at her and can't believe that she's become yet more radiant than the day before, and that's all I want to say to her, so I'm struck dumb. If I ever had a grip, it's a flea sneeze from slipping clean off. I feel stupid on a gargantuan scale for being so overwrought over someone who feels nothing for me. I told Stacey tonight that I wished this was a real breakup, so I'd know the emotional investment hadn't been entirely mine. She said, "Unrequited love is always harder to deal with than breaking up from true love. Don't you think?" "I wouldn't know. I've never been in love." That saddened her terribly, which deepened my woe, but touched me, grasped me, pulled me from deeper despair. Sometimes I wonder how I still have friends, as taxing as I can be and so deeply in debt to them that I can't imagine repayment.

But the letter. Though it seems to be taking solid, cohesive shape, I feel I'm beginning to lose my voice to sentimentality and hope for what I know can never be mine.

Here are your books. If you asked why I was returning them, I probably only responded with a practical truth: that I felt I'd had them long enough and thought you might like them back--something like that. Another truth is that it allowed me to drop this letter on your doorstep, ring the bell and walk away.

I'm not writing to plead my case. I'm just talking to you, perhaps the way I'd hoped to at the coffee shop, only, this time, don't feel compelled to talk back. I'll still likely ask a lot of questions, but I'm only planting seeds; whatever grows will grow. Neither am I trying to dissuade you from your position. If anything, I'm trying to dissuade me from mine. That will take some doing. Just as I must accept your lack of reciprocation for my feelings for you, please appreciate that getting over you might take me a while. Seeing you five days out of the week doesn't help, but neither does being a one-choice man: I take my time making up my mind, but when I've determined what
I want I'm sure of it and am resistant to so much as consider an alternative, much less settle for it. But I could be wrong this time.

Do you remember me telling you that the trip to the coffee shop had been much longer than the literal miles and time? I also said I might tell you about it if you ever changed your mind. Well, that likelihood seems but a dim gleam in the eye of hope, so we'll stick a thumb out at the point where I asked you to meet me for tea. That should get us a ride to the first time you said, "I wondered why you asked me to meet you here." What I've been wondering since is how you addressed that wondering. Did "Julie, you fascinate me, and I'd like to get to know you better in a way I can't at work" take you entirely by surprise? If so, I hadn't been quite the Tom Sawyer to your Becky Thatcher that I thought I'd been.

When you said, "If I change my mind you'll be the first to know," I responded, "You know, I don't think you would." I'm sorry. That was unfair. It came from a bitter place. I'm sorry, too, for the stress I caused you that day. When you wouldn't lower your drawbridge, I tried to batter it down. But I only wanted in to look at your garden. How does the sun reach it?

What I won't apologize for is embarrassing you--not that I intended to do that (the first time). I was trying to strike a spark, and the fire in your cheeks proved me successful. (You can't take that from me!) But nothing I've ever said to you was flattery. Every word was how I felt (even about your bin-packing). I am truly fascinated with you--your beauty, your mystery, the depths you conceal, the Julie you hide and protect. I can, in time and in the ever-growing, obscuring face of reality, give up the idea of "us," but I'll never stop wondering about the Julie I'll never know. Be assured, though, that I will never again blow on your fire. I cannot assure you, however that I will not steal glances your way or outright stare at you. But it will be as at a work of art, something to appreciate, marvel at, ponder the meaning of. If it discomfits you, would you let me know?

I seem to be reaching, almost pleading, by the end, as if I really were talking to her, looking in her eyes for a sign of emotional life. I'm beginning to think it's not a bad thing. It's coming from a passion and genuine feeling. I have to let her know my feelings, as long as I don't ask for the same back--as long as I don't actually ask for anything at all of her that I truly expect her to answer. I'm feeling very far from finished, but much closer to having all the pieces laid out in front of me. Putting them together would be easy enough if I could just see them all and be sure none were missing.