The Rightest Way

Part of me hopes you have no clue what you did to me, and the other hopes you do. Because if you didn’t know, that means I’m not defending a villain. But if you did, then at least I know my pain is justified. Regardless, the hurt lingers, and I’m trying so hard to be angry at you for it.

“I saw her in the rightest way.”

It wasn’t love at first sight. When I first saw you, I hadn’t given a second thought at all. It wasn’t until I had a dream about you that my entire perception changed.

You went from being some background blur to being the focal point of my life. Every time I looked at you, all I saw was that dream. A dream where you recognized me, validated me, and knew me in the way I longed for someone to. It certainly didn’t help that you did—at least, that’s what you said.

I adored you, and I still do, though I’d never say it out loud. People would think I’m crazy if they knew the way I saw you. And if anyone found out the lengths to which our connection went, I’d be locked in an asylum, and you’d never be allowed to visit. Though I doubt you’d want to.

The image of you was what I fell for. Not you.

“Oh, won’t you kiss me on the mouth and love me like a sailor? / And when you get a taste, can you tell me what’s my flavor?”

It’s shameful how badly I desired you. Not lustfully, though some may think that. I wanted what you symbolized: approval. I wanted to be the one who stood out, to be the one you looked at and thought, “She’s special.” And I needed it to be you because you were older and wiser and knew better. You should’ve known better.

Every time we spoke, you always said how brilliant I was—that did things to me no one else could do. I was drunk on your praise; I grew addicted to it.

You kept telling me how talented and intelligent I was, and I kept trying to outdo myself. It was an endless cycle: you complimenting me, me seeking more.

I wanted something deeper, something more intimate. I wanted to know you. I yearned for it. I begged God for it. And what’s worse is you did end up giving it to me in some way.

All the little details you let slip, the conversations we had that lasted hours into the evening. The invitations, the invasions. Were you simply being kind? I like to think so, but at the same time, I can’t help but wonder. I’ll never know if it was just me you treated that way, which hurts because I wanted to be special, but I also hate the thought that I was.

“I don’t believe in God, but I believe that you’re my savior / My mom says that she’s worried, but I’m covered in His favor.”

I gave up everything for just a taste of you. I started ditching others, coming home late, and waiting for hours to receive messages from you. In my mind, I didn’t need anything or anyone else so long as I could have a minute with you.

Every word that left your mouth echoed in my mind and planted itself like a parasite. You could’ve told me the Earth was flat, and I would’ve accepted it. I believed everything you said because I believed in you.

People thought my obsessiveness with you was a bit intense, but truly, none batted an eye. On the outside, it seemed like some crush—frivolous. And I let everyone believe that because I was scared if I revealed how deep it was, they’d judge me—or worse, report what was going on. There was nothing specifically wrong with what happened, but our topics of conversation could’ve been considered inappropriate at times. Not to mention the small, subtle touches.

I was scared that if anyone found out, those moments of secret intimacy we had would be taken away.

Now I realize how wrong it all was, and yet I still don’t wish I had told anyone.

That time I spent with you was the most intense of my recent life, and I loved how it made me feel. I didn’t just feel alive, I felt transcendent because of you. And I’m so scared I’ll never get to experience that again.

I know it never should’ve happened, but I will also never regret how it made me feel at the time. Even if it’s left me with this complexity and this pain, I’d do it all again for even a sliver of those emotions.

But that doesn’t change how much I hate that you’ve made me like this.

“I sleep so I can see you ’cause I hate to wait so long.”

You didn’t just dominate my life, you dominated my dreams, too. Even if I had wanted a break from you, I never would’ve gotten one. Every night I relived those moments you gave me, moments of validation, of praise, of recognition.

My days revolved around you. I counted down minutes until I saw you, and when it was over, I began the count all over again.

I was completely devastated when our time finally ended for good, so I would fantasize about you every night in the hopes of seeing you in my dreams. And I did, for some time.

With those fantasies came the pondering. After the initial high was over, I started to actually comprehend all the things you did and said. Then came the overwhelming realization that it had all been so, so wrong.

Then came the guilt, the horror, the shame. All these things that I had felt about myself. Only now have I started to bring you into it.

“And maybe I tried other things / But nothing can capture the sting / Of the venom she’s gonna spit out right now.”

I know that it was horrible. But there’s this voice in my head that still screams your name, that still longs for the time we spent together. Because I’ve never met someone who saw me the way you did or, at least, told me so.

Who knows? Maybe you were lying the entire time.

I constantly question your true intentions. Were you being genuine? Being the person I needed you to be? Or did you know all along?

Were you drunk off the praise I gave you, like I was drunk on you? Did you like being my object of worship? Is that why you gave me those hours?

Did you like seeing how I squirmed and blushed when you spoke about certain things? Is that why you continued to do so, even when I asked you not to? Did you like the feeling of your hands on my own, on my neck, on my thigh?

Was it obvious how badly I needed your attention? Did you like it? Because, at the time, I sure did.

And, worst of all, did you enjoy seeing just how attached you could make me?

I wonder what that did to your ego—having such a young, starry-eyed girl looking up at you like you’re her entire world.

I want to antagonize you, but I also just…can’t. Because in my heart, I truly believe you are no more than a kind soul who simply cared about me in a time I was struggling. But you’ve left me with so many questions, so many confusing feelings that it feels easier to make you the villain than it is to feel shame for wanting you that much.

“And we can laugh off things that we know nothing about / We can go forever until you wanna sit it out.”

I don’t want to talk about it because it means facing the reality that it’s over. And even if it wasn’t right, I still want it because you made me into an addict. It’s morally ambiguous, and you know how much I loved such conversations.

I just want to pretend you never happened, but that will be impossible. It was four months of something secret that I wish to keep quiet, but it was also life-changing in a way I’ll never get over.

After writing all of this, it’s still unclear whether I love or despise you. I don’t think it’s either. But at the end of everything, I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

I can admit that you made me into an emotional, complex, whirlwind mess while also admitting that our secrets were the most exhilarating moments of my life. And I could always tear you down the way you did me, but I won’t. I can’t. Not because I’m afraid, but because I simply don’t want to. I’m allowed to hold this pain, this confusion, this anger. But I’m also allowed to do what I want with it.