short story about imagined love
We were in the same kindergarten class, but we never interacted. I didn’t even realize you were in my class. I suppose that’s fitting. We met for the first time a few years later when I was sitting alone in the sandbox, trying to build a sandcastle without water. Out of nowhere, you appeared and demanded that we play tag. Before I could respond, you were off. Of course, I followed. We ran under the jungle gym, around the slides, through the blacktop, and then back under the jungle gym. I was gaining on you, and you knew it. So just as we slipped between the swings, you grabbed a tree and exclaimed, “This is base.”
I thought that was unfair. But I said nothing and sat beside you instead, waiting for you to let go of the tree—you never did. We sat in calm silence until the bell rang, at which point you matter-of-factly stated that the game was over, and we’ll play again tomorrow.
This became our daily routine every recess, racing across the playground until you found that day’s “base.” We didn’t speak much, but I cherished the words we shared. You talked about how important being fair was, which I found ironic, and we would always argue about which animal cracker tasted the best. You insisted it was the elephant; I thought you were ridiculous. It was comforting. We understood the routine. I didn’t even mind your cheating if it meant we would be sprinting across fields and cutting through games of four square the next day.
But after a month, for no particular reason, we stopped. I always felt tempted to ask for a playdate or to play tag one more time, but I never did. We were best friends for a month, as only children could be.
I missed you, so whenever I saw you in the hall, I would try to catch your eye. I could tell you were purposefully ignoring me, but I didn’t mind.
During middle school, we were assigned to sit next to each other in algebra. While I tried to hide my excitement, your disappointment was blatant. The teacher started talking, but I was lost in thought, thinking about how I could make you laugh or look at me. That semester, while you took notes, I would draw stupid cartoons and tap them casually, hoping to catch your attention. You would stubbornly always keep your eyes forward and mouth taut, ignoring my calls for attention while scribbling notes. It was endearing how you took notes; your handwriting was horrid, but you wrote everything down. It was a beautiful mess. Nevertheless, I kept on doodling and tapping. A mathematician with several shopping carts of watermelons, nothing. Our teacher’s head on a baboon, stone-faced. An annoyingly talkative classmate being gagged, a suppressed smile. For the rest of class, you seemed extra peeved, but I couldn’t contain my grin.
In high school, we shared a few classes every other semester. You never said anything to me, but I noticed how you would hide your grin when I cracked a particularly bad joke. When that happened, I took it as a sign of a good day. Despite never interacting, I felt like I’d known you my whole life. The way you twirled your pencil when you were thinking, the way your face twitched when you got an answer wrong, it felt so familiar. I wondered if you noticed similar quirks in me.
When prom season came around, I didn’t know who to ask. You came to mind, of course, but I was afraid to ask. How would I approach? With an “Excuse me, did we play tag as children?” It seemed a little too late for that. But at the same time, neither of us ever dated. I’d like to think you were waiting for me, but that was my pipe dream. I knew you were too focused on the next competition, the larger design, to date in our hometown.
We both went to prom by ourselves. As everyone else danced, we sat at separate tables, silently pleading with fleeting glances to say something. But the pleas went unanswered, and we remained seated, united in loneliness as we watched the couple’s dance.
The night you left for college; I expected you to stop by. To confirm a mutual connection, and to articulate an unsaid conversation. But you never did. Why would you? Our relationship wasn’t real. So, what was there to mourn? We were in the same school for over a decade and yet, you were little beyond inferences and assumptions. It’s peculiar how you could spend so much time with someone, think so much of them, but ultimately, never know them. It is the death of an unlived life.