. On Collectors .

He was a collector. 

Of things.

But mostly of people.

I was far, far too young, and he was far, far too experienced. I was looking through applications one afternoon in an office on campus. Kinda like wolves, bears, boogie monsters, or other very scary wild things - he zeroed in on me, just as you do when you're looking for prey. His eyes calculated. They never stopped running the math. 

How quickly can I wrap her up in my life? 
How deeply will she fall in love? 
What will make her turn those blue eyes straight at me? 

It took him a year.

Cajoling. 
Convincing. 

And then I consented. Relented. His answering smile made me smile and I thought maybe, just maybe, this might be the thing they always talk about. 

Sparkles and happy and always and more.

And so began late night visits. A masterpiece I thought we were creating together. As I often am, I was all in and I don't understand how people just aren't. Sharing pictures from Christmas, and pointing out my dad. My grandma. Telling him parts of my story. Giving him little pieces of me, and building what I thought was some sort of crazy, exciting foundation. 

A meteor shower late one night on a hill. Both of us sitting on top of his explorer - watching the stars fall down. 
Cookies baking in his oven while the campus stood still for a snow storm. 
A whispered I love you when he thought I was asleep.

His house smelled like some kind of cheap cinnamon candle and Disney movies always played on his TV. His couch smelled like he slept on it too often and I wondered what he'd look like at our family gatherings. Would he shake my dad's hand? Would he make my mom laugh? 

And then. 

I was at cheer practice one night. It was already dark outside. We were practicing a quarter break cheer and as I hit the first motion with the bright smile that my parents paid for, the door in front of me opened. And there he was, smiling. Looking directly at me. 

Brown eyes. 
To blue eyes.

I smiled even bigger back at him. 

Second motion. 
Third motion.

Turn of my shoulder.
Wink. 

I winked at him just as a girl followed him in. Long, brown curly hair and a black leather jacket and a hand that wrapped around his back. She wore heeled boots and later, I'd laugh. No one wore heeled boots in the winter where I went to college. 

He paraded her through the gym with only one intention. Me.

I saw her. 
I saw him.
In slow, slow motion.
And the message was received. 

So loudly.
So clearly.

And yet. 
And yet.

​That wouldn't be the last time I'd see him. 

See, sometimes, I think God gives us the lesson to learn until we actually learn it. Too loud, too bright, too shiny, too much - He'll give it to you, and He'll give it to you until you get it. 

He just wasn't for me.

The last time I saw him, I left a sweatshirt on his kitchen table. I brought some cake to his house to share with him after we watched a movie, and it remained untouched. Instead, we stood toe to toe on cheap linoleum and lived through an ending. 

There were slow words from him.
Hurried words back from me. 
A defense, really. 

And later? I'd learn that if you have to offer a rushed rebuttal about why your love is the best love? Then it's best to take your love to someone else. 

And so.
And so. 

On a Friday night - 
There was just ... an end. 
A shrug of his shoulders. 
A cavalier brush off. 
While I held an aluminum pan of chocolate cake. 
Confused, I turned to go and he patted my shoulder. My cheeks heated. 

An entire year? An entire year boiled down to a man patting my shoulder like I was his buddy? 

I got into my car and the cake rested on my thighs as I navigated unfamiliar streets. I pointed my car home and had to pull over in some strange small town to cry.

It took me a long time to realize that no, I wasn't crying for him.

I was crying because for an entire year. 
A solid 365 days of my life, I was living parallel with someone completely positive that my life was heading in the same direction as his. 

And then, suddenly, the curtain was pulled back and I realized - 

No.
Just.
No.

​My heart was broken for the things we'd never be. 
​For the things we'd never do together. 
For the moments we'd never live together.

But, just for the record.
For the purpose of the lesson.
For the purpose of the scar labeled in big, bold letters with his name.
Scrawled deeply across my (still beating, FYI) heart.

It wasn't broken because of him. 

It took me a long, long time to realize that sometimes. 

Soooooometimes. 

People collect things.
People.
Things.
People.

Because there is something missing deep, deep down inside. 

Something that I won't be able to fix.
Something that the next girl with long, curly brown hair won't be able to fix. 

And that's a sad, sad life to live.

My drum banged a little louder after that day. 
I will not be a Collector of People. 
I will not be a Collector of People.
I will not be like him.
I will not be like him.

And also? 
For the record and all? 

I ate the chocolate cake on the way home.

And it was damn good.

xoxo, B.