The boy is mine:
When we began this journey, the thought didn’t occur as to who would end up with Mr. F, should he choose to reciprocate our love. Therefore, to adhere to the definition, only one may win the prize. He may have two arms, but only one heart. Let the charming begin.
Bonjour monsieur F,
May I just say that these past nine weeks have been both edifying and magnificent. I’ve never been so affirmed in my natural beauty and my femininity as when you told me I was pretty. That’s how I knew I was the one. Sure, we haven’t spoken since, but I figured if you changed your mind, you would let me know. That’s how my grandparents’ marriage was: he told her he loved her on their wedding day and then never again for the 47 years they lived as man and wife. He didn’t have to remind her, she just knew.
I want our relationship to be just like that. They would hardly ever talk to each other, yet she still knew that he wanted dinner ready by 6 p.m. and he knew that she wanted him to decide her political party affiliation. We will sit across from each other at dinner, and neither one has to say anything. We’ll finish each other’s sentences with our minds. We’re that equally yoked.
But as for the problem at hand: Carly Williams. Sure, she’s beautiful. But she can’t give you what you need. Not long-term. Her sanguine temperament doesn’t complement your melancholic as well as my choleric does. I admit, it will be uncomfortable at first, us, walking hand in hand around the campus mall, her, studying nearby, alone. But then she’ll get over it. Jennifer Aniston did.
Speaking of long-term, I want to have kids before I’m 30. But we have plenty of time to talk about that . . . except that I want to be married for at least five years, and before I’m married I need at least a year to plan the spring wedding. And of course, I need the standard two years dating before any ring goes on this finger. But I do want the ring before I graduate . . . which means we should have started dating six months ago.
I’m not worried about this spat. Carly can deal. We’re meant to be, and I won’t go silently into the night.
It’s me. The one you’ve been looking for, but apart from my glorious effort, you have not found me yet. Since I have written to you all semester long, I expected more . . . at least a hello. O.k., you’ve said hello to me before . . . you’ve even offered a helping hand when I needed it, a hug when I was down, and a compliment on my look. But not in a boyfriend-girlfriend kind of way. I guess the Chinese proverb, “Love is blind, friendship closes its eyes” is way too accurate.
The love I hold is insurmountable. I see you everyday and at a school this size, I cannot hide. Even if I wanted out of the love triangle with that girl, Yates, I can’t, because you are the only one I want and I’m the only one you need.
My qualities are numerous, by humility really sticks out. My leadership qualities and harmonious voice would fit perfectly with your melodic tones . . . we could really lead worship for a college group at our church in a few years when we’re older and settled down. Our style fits together like Pattinson and Stewart–you with your Urban Outfitter flair, my Anthropologie meets East Coast couture is sure to complement each other, creating jealousy for all the single ladies out there.
But alas, my mind is finished being played with. This game cannot go on any longer. Starting . . . right . . . now. Wait, I can’t just walk away. You’re the air I breathe, the Kayne to my Taylor, the scantron to my test. You just can’t have one without the other.
Don’t you see, F? The odds are for us. Summer will only last a couple months. But I will be there through all the seasons.
That’s it. You’re mine. “I do” declare war.