her.

I remember reading somewhere (probably on Twitter) that writing your feelings down is good for your mental health. As a guy, I don’t have any other form of emotional expression, so I figured writing my story would help me—and maybe it’ll make for an interesting read for any lurkers on r/malementalhealth. 

My story is about a girl I once knew. It’s been a year since I’ve last seen her, and I don’t know what prompts me to write about her—I guess to discuss old emotions that have been on my mind—but here I am, writing to a reader about feelings I can only hope they understand. 

Where to start?

Her nails were always short and stained with dried blood. She played with her hair continuously, flipping it into place and ruffling it out of place. Over and over she fiddled with things. Pens, the hem of her shirt, the pendant on her necklace which always dangled precariously close to her sternum. 

#

I first noticed her as I was walking around campus at the beginning of my second year. I was looking for my classes. She was heading the opposite direction, fidgeting with her fingers. She seemed to stare through everyone, set on her path with a gait I can only describe as purposeful. When she walked by me… I swear she smelled of sweetness and purity. 

I showed up to one of my lectures, and the same girl was seated next to me. I remember the shirt she was wearing: red and lowcut, highlighting that necklace she always played with. I think the pendant was a cross. Funnily enough, I never found out if she was Christian. In between the lecturer’s pauses, I would sneak a glance beside me. She was hunched over her notebook, scribbling furiously. Her thumb drummed against the desk fast and soft. For the rest of class, I could hear her faint tapping beside me. I heard it every lecture going forward. 

It was intriguing, secretly watching her work away. Never had I seen someone so completely absorbed in learning. Occasionally, her head swivelled from her notebook to the lecture slides. I often wondered what her notes looked like, but my eyes couldn’t stretch far enough to see past her shoulder and I never turned my head to look closer. 

After the lecture, she packed up quickly. I wanted to say hello, but she was out the door before I had even opened my bag. She ended up in my seminar, where I first learned her name. I can’t remember it now, of course, but I remember it suited her perfectly. Listening to her talk was always a treat. I remember she always had ideas to put forth. She seemed so smart, though I never really paid attention to what she was saying. Rather, I liked listening to the musical lilt she spoke with. Her voice had a siren-like effect on me; I often found myself lost in it. 

Interestingly, every time she spoke her knee bounced rapidly. I found these little quirks of hers incredibly endearing. 

#

The next time I saw her I was grabbing a coffee, and she happened to be sitting in the campus Starbucks. I remember she was chewing on her thumbnail, reading something on her laptop. Her hair lay loose around her shoulders in golden curls. She called to mind this poem I had read in high school—Porphyria’s partner, or paramour, or something. I don’t remember much of the poem, but I remember Porphyria was beautiful—like how I would describe this girl. 

I know it’s probably weird that I can’t remember her name, but I can describe these snapshot details about her with ease. I can’t explain it other than she was simply fascinating to me. Not in a creepy, stalker ‘I’m madly in love with this girl who doesn’t even know me’ type of way—I just noticed her, for whatever reason. 

Part of me wanted to approach her, but considering we hadn’t spoken yet, I felt it would be weird. Instead, I kept looking at her: a habit that would soon become commonplace. She had an iced coffee. Condensation was pooling around the bottom of the cup. It looked like she’d barely drunk it. She chewed on her lip, and her head bobbed along to whatever music she was listening to—but only ever so slightly. It wouldn’t even be noticeable if you weren’t paying attention. But I was.

#

She slowly started popping up everywhere I went. It was like she became a recurring extra in my life, always in the background of wherever I was. She was my campus person: someone who you see around all the time, even though you don’t actively try to. 

I became somewhat consumed with the idea of her. The more I saw her, the more I saw these wonderful, tiny details about her that made her so incredibly alluring—details I know no one else appreciated the way I did. She was a venus fly trap, and I, the fly. I began to catalogue the clothes she wore, the perfumes she used, where she hung around on campus, the general schedule she followed day-to-day, etcetera etcetera. Name any conceivable detail you could know about a person and their habits, and I likely knew it about her. 

I spoke to her for the first time about a month into class. I went to seminar early, and there she was – as I knew she would be. She had this charming habit of being overly punctual. I sat beside her, breath hitched as I tried to think of something to say. I choked out a meek ‘hello’, but she didn’t react. She had earbuds in. I tried to speak a little louder.

“Hey,” I said, wiping my palms against my pants. She looked over at me with these doe-like eyes, and took one of her earbuds out. 

“Hello,” she responded, gazing at me silently. I took a moment to swallow the excessive saliva built up in the back of my throat. My voice was shaky when I finally replied. 

“Did you complete the readings for this week?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you find them hard?”

“Not really.”

“That’s crazy, I struggled with the longer chapter… I couldn’t stay focused.”

“Oh. I liked that chapter.” 

The room filled as we talked. A girl sat beside her, and she turned away from me. She took out her other earbud, speaking animatedly with (who I supposed was) her friend. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t believe I just had a conversation with her. I had finally spoken to the girl that had occupied my mind for so long… it was both terrifying and exhilarating. 

#

I started going to class early to talk to her more. That class soon became my favourite part of the week, and I was impatient for it to roll around again the moment it ended. At risk of repeating myself, I’ll mention again that I don’t know why I fixated on this girl. But I know that I needed to know her. I hope you can understand my fascination—can see, in the way I describe her, the aspects of her that kept me hooked. She was a magnet that kept drawing me in, no matter how much I tried thinking about anything else. 

I remember the conversation we had as reading week approached. She was wearing this tight-fitted, pink shirt. Her shoes were the same colour as her top. I remember the outfit because it accentuated her form so perfectly, and the colour coordination stood out. Anyone looking at her could tell she had calculated the outfit with an almost excessive attention to detail. She always put the most effort into everything she did, no matter how big or small. I appreciated that. 

I sat down and said hello to her. She responded quickly, writing something in her notebook. I was always amazed at how well she multi-tasked when we talked. I remember shifting in my seat, and my knee brushed against her leg. I remember my heart pounding viscerally when we made contact. She shifted away. 

“Are you going home for reading week?” I asked. 

“Yeah. I haven’t been home in months… I stayed here for Thanksgiving so I could work on a paper,” she mumbled. 

“Oh, I didn’t know you stayed here for Thanksgiving.” 

“Yeah,” she said. She grabbed her phone and busied herself with something. 

“Did you spend Thanksgiving alone then?”

“Yeah.”

“That sucks.” 

“It is what it is,” she said blankly. I sucked in a deep breath. 

“When do you leave?” 

“On Saturday.”

“Wow, same! …Are you busy Friday?”

“Yeah. I’ve got work.” 

“Oh, that’s too bad. I was going to ask if you wanted to get together to work on the upcoming assignment,” I responded, my chest tight. I remember waiting for her response. Time felt thick as jelly. It took forever before she replied. 

“Yeah, I’m busy Friday. Sorry,” she said, not looking up from her phone. My stomach dropped and I had to take a moment to regain my composure. I remember feeling the twinge of a sting deep in my chest. My shoulders drooped, and a frown flickered onto my face. The seminar discussion started shortly after, and I remember feeling… off. I don’t think I took notes that day.

#

Our conversations for the rest of the year were similar. It’s hard to have deep, meaningful discussions while in class. I remember trying again and again to set up a time to get together outside of seminar. I wanted to corner her into a space where I could learn about her on a more profound level—but she was always ‘swamped’. While the near-constant rejection didn’t feel great, I also understood why she did it. She was incredibly devoted to her work and classes—one of the things I admired about her. I couldn’t get mad at the traits that charmed me; that would be hypocritical.

I remember how I figured out we took the same bus route. I discovered this wonderful tidbit of information one day when I was feeling sick after class. Rather than going to the library, as per usual, I planned on dragging myself home to take some Advil. When packing my bag, I noticed her walking out the door. I threw my stuff haphazardly in my bag, did it up, and sprinted out the classroom too—trying to reach her to chat. She glanced backwards for a moment; I smiled and waved. I guess she didn’t see me because she kept walking. She was surprisingly fast for someone so short; I had to practically run to get to her. I tapped on her shoulder, and she whipped her head towards me, eyebrows raised—her mouth ever so slightly parted. It was adorable. I waved again. She took a moment to take out her earbuds. 

“Hi,” I said.

“…Hey?”

“Do you have another class to get to?”

“No… I was just heading to the bus stop.”

“Same! What bus do you take?” I asked. She stared at me for a moment, then looked to her shoes and continued walking. 

“The 11.” 

“Wow, same! I had no clue. That’s crazy!”

“Yeah.”

After I realized we rode the same bus line I (naturally) changed my routine and began bussing with her weekly. Bussing together gave me a chance to interact with her outside of the confines of our class. I was able to bask in her presence, to share a vastly more intimate space with her than I ever could in our overcrowded seminar room. Not to mention, sitting squeezed next to each other, my elbow or knee could accidentally graze her… Those brief touches were intoxicating. I cherished these bus rides. Within these fifteen-minute journeys, I learned a wealth of information about her: where she worked (on campus), what her program was (Business), where she lived (ten stops before mine). 

How lucky I felt, to be a constant in the life of this girl whom I admired so deeply. I often wondered if I crossed her mind as much as she did mine, if she found me as fascinating as I found her.  

#

Out of all the moments I shared with this girl, I remember our last interaction perhaps the most vividly. Let me take you through the whole memory, paint you a picture of each detail as I recall them in an attempt to render what I consider the most confusing, heart-wrenching social exchange I have ever been through. Maybe it will confuse you, too. 

The last time we talked, it was our class’ final seminar. I remember her outfit made her look like a Lolita-esque porcelain doll. She wore this lowcut, lacey white top and a short black skirt. Her lips were stained cherry red to match her nails. It was my favourite outfit she wore.

I remember asking how she had the energy to plan such complex, fancy outfits this late in the school year. She offhandedly told me they didn’t take much energy to plan. I mentioned that simply putting on a hoodie exhausted me. She retorted that she just dressed for whatever she was feeling that day. That astonished me. As if I couldn’t be more astonished by this girl. I asked her if she was excited for the last day of class. 

“It’ll be nice to take a break. I feel like this semester went way too fast,” she said. 

“Oh totally,” I agreed. “I know you’ve been so busy this semester, I’m sure it’ll be nice to relax for a bit.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Do you have any plans now that things are slowing down?” 

“Mostly prepping for exams and final projects.”

“After that?”

“I haven’t really thought that far ahead, to be honest.” 

“I get that.”

The conversation was cut short by the professor entering the room. That final class went by too fast. It was like time was slipping through my fingers. I felt heavy, almost morose, as I realized that this could be my last time talking to her. What if we never had another class together? What if I stopped running into her on campus? My heart contracted painfully. I tried to focus. My breathing was short, and my hands trembled as I thought about a future without her. Without even realizing it, class was over and we were leaving the room. Then we were on the bus. Then we were six stops from her apartment. I think I asked her a question about the final paper. She answered, but I couldn’t focus on what she was saying. 

My hands fumbled around my bag, searching for my phone as I stared off into the distance. Five stops away now. I opened my phone and scrolled to the contacts app. I looked up at her desperately, trying to hone in on her voice. Four stops. 

“…crazy because I’ve been working on it for two weeks but I’ve barely made any progress.” she said.

“What?”

“The final paper?”

“Oh. I’m not done either,” I mumbled. A silence fell over us. Three stops. 

“Hey,” I said. “Now that the semester’s over…” 

“Yeah?” 

“Well, I had a thought…” I continued. Two stops left. 

“Oh. What’s up?” she replied. Her stop was next, and I knew it was then or never. She grabbed the pullcord and a ding echoed through the bus. My knee was bouncing and I inhaled deeply, my hands too sweaty and shaky. I held my phone out to her. 

“Can I get your number?” I asked. 

“You know, I don’t really give out my number, sorry. And I have to get off now. I’m sorry. Good luck with exams,” she said. She got off the bus and tried to walk out of my life. My heart was racing and, without consciously choosing to, I was sprinting off the bus after her. I think I called her name, because I remember her turning around with wide eyes. I smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back. 

“Isn’t your stop like seven stops away from here?” she asked, staring at her feet. Her voice was soft, shaking slightly—probably from the cold. 

“Ten stops actually, but it’s a nice day out. I can walk the rest of the way,” 

“It’s snowing.” 

“I like the snow,” I retorted. She stopped talking, her arms crossed, still staring downwards. We walked for a bit in silence; I listened to the wind whistling around us. 

“So… what about that phone number?” I asked, holding out my phone again. She finally looked up at me. I couldn’t make out the expression on her face. She stopped walking. I looked at her with a raised eyebrow. 

“Dude, what the fuck?” She asked. I stared at her, not sure how to reply. 

“No, seriously, what the fuck?” she repeated, glaring at me. I blinked. 

“Did you just fucking follow me off the bus to get my number?” 

“…Yes?”

“You need to back the fuck up from me.”

I swear my heart cracked. She stepped back from me. I stepped toward her.

“I said back the fuck up man,” she spat out. I stopped in my tracks. 

“Do you realize how fucking creepy that is? I already said I don’t give out my number. I already said no!” she seethed. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears. The world was crumbling around me as this pure, angelic image I had of her shattered. 

 “You know, you’ve been so weird all year. You’re always staring at me in class, always sitting next to me to brush your leg against mine—or your hand, or your elbow. It’s weird,” she continued. My face grew red at this proposition; I had never touched her on purpose—it had always been accidental. I wanted to throw up, and yell, and cry, and punch something all at once. 

 “Have you ever realized that every time you asked me to hang out, I’ve always tried to let you down nicely? I’ve always said no. But you can’t take a fucking hint, can you? I’ve been nice to you, been polite to you, been friendly in class and on the bus—I’ve tolerated all the conversations and touching and staring because I didn’t want to be mean,” she said, raising her voice. In front of my eyes this girl, whom I had admired for being so sweet, smart, and quiet, warped into an image of fury I had never encountered. This wasn’t who she was. This wasn’t her at all. This wasn’t my girl. She was being a, for lack of a better word, bitch. Her words barely registered as my ears rang. 

 “But I don’t owe you my number, nor my time. You look at me like you… like you love me or something! But we don’t even know each other, dude,” she finished angrily. It felt like I was floating outside of my body, watching the interaction take place as a third-party. I was overheating, my joints tingling and chest tight. 

“I’m going to walk to my apartment. You stay the fuck away from my place. And if I see you come up to the door, I will call the cops,” she said, walking away slowly. I stood there, watching her for what would be the last time. The snow beat against my face. She entered her building, slamming the door and shutting me out. After the shock subsided, I—seeing red, fueled by a stabbing pain in my heart—marched over to her apartment and onto her front porch. I was ready to bang on her front door, to get my turn to yell at her. She had no right saying those things. 

As I held my hand up to the door, the fear of being arrested washed over me. I’d read too many stories where a good guy had his life ruined because a girl made false accusations against him. My hand dropped to my side, and tears welled in my eyes. I pushed them back and walked away. I felt defeated. I wanted—no, I deserved—the chance to explain myself. It wasn’t fair that I didn’t get to say my side of the story. If she would’ve just stayed a moment longer and listened, I could have cleared things up. I could’ve told her I didn’t love her, or I didn’t think I loved her… not that I really understood what romantic love felt like… But that’s beside the point. I wasn’t being creepy.

After that encounter, I didn’t eat or sleep. I became a shell of myself. I was numb, furious, depressed, and scared. I’ve never been able to interact with women the same way, out of fear that I’d be viewed as the villain again. And that’s the end of our story. That’s the last time I saw her. I can offer you no more closure—not when I got none…