I put my iPod on shuffle the other night, and a song from my favorite musical came on. During this song in the show, one of the characters is singing and dancing her way up a staircase, in a dark alley, during the middle of the night in New York City. She climbs through the window of her love interest’s apartment, and tries to convince him to go out with her. I’m not sure if it’s just the singer and dancer in me, but I always involuntarily picture myself performing that scene, and choreograph the number in my head.  Though in my version, when I’m mentally dancing, I’m singing to a girl. Not one in particular, one that I haven’t met yet I guess. I’d go against my parent’s wishes, and sneak out into the dangerous streets of the city, where the ground is slightly wet from rain, and it smells like fresh spring. I’m wearing a flared, black, leather mini dress, a black jacket, and black heels; I’m also somehow managing to do high kicks and twirls in this ensemble, all while not having any wardrobe malfunctions. The moonlight is glistening on my light hair, and my dress is flowing in perfect rhythm, casting shadows on the puddles beneath. Leather is something I’d usually never wear, but in that moment, it feels right. I’d sing and dance my way through the alley and up the stairs to her bedroom window, all whilst the streetlights illuminate a perfect shimmering spotlight. Inside she would be smiling and shocked, because I came to see her, and her parents would kill us both if they knew- but we’re young and in love, so the rest of the world doesn’t matter. As little miss perfect, it feels too good to be selfish for once. To be my 2am self, and feel so alive. To be the girl who is living in the moment, instead of focused on the future.  There’s just something liberating about living as that person no one expects you to be. To be the person who lives up to their own expectations, and not someone else’s. 

Obviously this fantasy is something I’d never do because, a. I live in the suburbs; b. I obsessively lock my car doors while driving at night; and c. you can’t exactly crawl through someone’s window without them usually calling the cops. Not to mention the fact that people can’t go dancing in the streets like it’s some sort of singular flash mob. But it’s refreshing to bring back those thrill seeking feelings of being in love with someone. Those crazy, I’d-do-anything-for-you moments. The key part being however, that the other person actually loves me back.

They warned me not to fall for a straight girl, but I can’t help whose existence my soul finds beautiful- though I certainly tried. The first person I told was a friend, a few years older than me. It was about two years ago, and we were sitting on the floor in my living room. I remember the look in her eyes, and how her whole face softened as she squealed, “Aw, you love her don’t you? That’s so sweet.” I sat on the floor, blushing immensely, and grabbed a pillow from the couch to suffocate my burning cheeks in.

“She doesn’t like girls, I know,” my words were muffled, escaping through the slivers of fabric covering the blue plaid pillow, “but it’s okay, because I can keep myself from falling further.” I really did think that at the time, and I thought confiding in someone else would help me achieve that apparently. But as time went on, I quickly learned that was not the case. Can you really be friends with someone you used to love, or still do? Listening to her talk about her boyfriend felt like someone was stabbing me in the heart, and my stomach would violently twist itself into knots, until I was home alone, free to cry myself to sleep.

She was the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, and for the first time in my life I understood what it’s like to have an emotional connection with someone. Her actual existence would bring waves of some sort of emotion I can’t explain over me. Her long, blonde hair would always spill over to one shoulder, as she smiled, telling me secrets. She was a drama queen, but I loved how she could never bite her tongue. Her social media sites were filled with poetry, and intricately written verses of prose. She was in love with language, and dreamt of doing something with an English degree. A wanderlust spirt that would have to settle with traveling across town on her skateboard for now. She’d wear leather leggings to go buy iced coffee, and listen to rock and roll music on the way. Her favorite color was blue (just like her eyes), but she always left me feeling burning red in her presence.

She’s kissed me before- all in good fun. We both laughed afterwards, and she shoved my arm, motioning to get back to studying. My heart was hammering in my chest, but I had to go along with it. If I didn’t, she might have known. I had a Starbucks iced tea in my hand- I concentrated on sipping it until our time together was up.
But unfortunately, my thrill seeking moments don’t just stay in my dark, alley dancing fantasies- because I did end up telling her I was in love with her. I ruin everything, didn’t you know? I’m a horrible person. I don’t want to hate my friend for being who she is; it’s a different kind of heartbreak, one most people can’t relate to. She will never be mine, and I inevitably have to watch her give her heart to someone else.

So for now I’ll just listen to my parents as they confirm that something is indeed wrong with me. I’m not supposed to like girls, I know, and God intended girls to only fall in love with boys. “I just don’t understand, you can’t have those kinds of feelings for a friend, you’re just confused,” and, “Bisexuals are weird,” is what they will tell me as an attempt to be compassionate- I guess. They will leave me alone to cry in my bed. Sometimes I’ll cry so hard that I have to use my rescue inhaler.  I’ll ask them if a broken heart is supposed to feel this bad; that on some days, I just listen to sappy break-up songs.

But then sometimes I hit the shuffle again, and those upbeat musical songs find their way back to me. Reminding me that love is unique, and it’s okay to feel what you do. Heartbreak may feel eternal, but one day I’ll find the boy or girl for me; and when that day comes, I might just find myself dancing in the rain at 2am, experiencing what it’s like to be okay with exactly who you are. Until then, I’ll keep my fantasies in my head, and remain dazed in reality.