Love. This is my favorite thing to think about. It’s what I dream about. It makes me happy. It makes me stop, gets me carried away. But just because it’s constantly on my mind doesn’t mean I know anything about it, how to deal with it, what it all means. Instead I spend most of my time trying to figure it out, trying to understand even the tiniest pieces of it. Maybe you can help me. Maybe we can unravel this kind of perfectly knotted mess like two happy cats—two cool cats. I know every girl loves love, so this chapter is about you, for you, and in some way, from you.
I always start off lying in bed, staring at the tiniest imperfections of my white ceiling. I’m left to smile the happiest smile of the day, alone in my room. He was looking right at me, talking the whole time. His round brown eyes held so much expression. They smiled, they contemplated, they were curious, they laughed, and sometimes they were concerned. It was funny to watch, too cute to turn away from. I playfully ran my fingers through his hair and he laughed. His eyes laughed too. He took both my hands into his and we danced under the sun, like a scene out of the movie I’d normally spend months wishing could be a reality—my reality, preferably. I felt tiny next to him. Tiny enough to hold, and he did hold me. It was nice, warm, and gentle. He smelled good. It was then that I realized—paused in his arms—that he’s got great deodorant taste. He’s kind of perfect; Liam was my kind of perfect.
Now we fast-forward two weeks. It is the Tuesday after my Saturday prom and I need help, a lot of help. I like him more than I ever intended or wanted to. Usually this is when I push away—when we push away—steer clear so we don’t have to look them in the eye and pretend butterflies aren’t procreating by the thousands each second we’re together—by the millions when we touch. But this time I wouldn’t do that. It might be worth letting go of control. Maybe it’s actually okay to give fate the wheel and just stand to watch it do its own thing—literally my biggest fear.
He met me outside the lobby of my apartment building and we exchanged a boutonniere for lei. Truthfully, I didn’t like boutonnieres at all—until I saw mine, of course. It was perfect, not the tacky bracelet of flowers I had initially imagined. A silver band that matched the darker grey of my dress and a pink accented orchid arrangement graced what I previously thought to be “an accessories from like, five thousand years ago.” My mom proceeded to ask whether or not he was a safe driver (that’s kind of important), limited herself to taking two pictures when she actually wanted thirty, and then waved goodbye before questioning him about his driving capabilities one more time. You know, just in case they had changed in the last two seconds. …They hadn’t.
We got in the car and I immediately anticipated the awkwardness that would soon flood its beige interior. You should probably know that one of my most charming traits is my inability to be—or for that matter, resemble—anything close to a functional human being when I’m in the general vicinity of people I truly admire. In a state of perfect nervousness, I began to shuffle the stack of teacher chaperone Thank You cards between my hands. There were butterflies in my stomach. There were so many butterflies. Did I mention there were tons, heaps, mounds of butterflies? A thousand creatures fluttered in my stomach when I have a natural maximum capacity of only ten. And then we—my date, my butterflies, and me—were off. On the drive we talked about his amazing family, his parents, and everything and anything else that happened to be relevant at the time. It wasn’t totally awkward—thank the merciful Lord—but it wasn’t totally natural either. My half of the conversation was tinged with uncertainty and insecurity. Not really myself, but also not really pretending to be someone I wasn’t made it difficult to determine which one I was leaning more toward. And then it hit. Literally.
You know the few milliseconds before something happens when you know it’s going to happen but there’s nothing you can do to stop it? I know there’s someone reading right now who’s all, Oh my god he kissed her! But before you get yourself (and me) excited, that’s not what happened. We swerved and bumped—into another car. And now there’s someone reading this right now who’s imagining a huge car accident of irresponsible, reckless teenage drivers, but that’s not right either. It resulted in a larger ripe-watermelon-sized dent and a series of thick scratches on the other car, but that’s about it. I take that back actually, that’s not it. It was the best icebreaker. What do you do when you’re sitting in his car, scared of what he—a provisionally licensed driver—thinks of you? You get into a minor car accident. It’s all about perspective. And I just have to say, when you look at it from the bright side, we successfully started prom off with a “bang.” The puns just keep coming.
In comparison to the start of the evening, the remainder of the night was as much fun as I possibly could’ve expected it to be considering the on-again off-again nature of my self-consciousness. Maybe you sometimes feel this way too, but there’s always a part of me that’s always a little scared to have too much fun because there’s that unpredictable possibility he’s not having that great of a time, you know? I don’t want to be all “YAY!” when he’s like “…yay…” That’s awkward. I don’t want to be awkward. I want to kiss him. I’m sorry, what? Well, yeah. Sitting in the car and saying “Well, thanks. Goodnight!” is one way to end prom, but in the movies they do it differently. I wanted the different way, the romantic way, and unfortunately, the highly unlikely way that didn’t happen. In all fairness, the realistic half of my brain knew it wouldn’t anyway—can’t say the same for the unrealistic half, but .02% of the time is that half ever right to begin with.
“Did you have fun?” Liam asked at the end of the night.
“I did.”
“Good, because that’s all that mattered tonight.” Instinctively, I quickly looked up at him. What does he mean “that’s all that mattered”? Or, is that all he means? With every cold, barefooted step I took on the pavement—because heels are just not worth it after five hours—I tried to decipher what “all that mattered” could have meant, because I wanted it to have meaning. I wanted it to mean that he carried my plate and pulled out my chair to make an impression. I wanted it to mean that he lifted me up on the dance floor because he knew just how special it would make me feel—even if the second time he did lift me up by my sweaty armpits, which really could not have been special for him considering how un-special it was—and continues to be—for me. I wanted it to mean that he was hoping for everything I was hoping for that night, and when I let myself think that way, I can’t help but smile.
Soon enough though, the smiles inevitably will wear away and the reality of our relationship will hit, leaving me to wonder, …so now what? That’s always the question. What do I do with these feelings? What’s going to happen to them? What are they? What do they mean? If they mean anything at all… What if—guys, what if it’s love?
Then another round of questions, but I’ll save you the time and confusion and condense it all into one: But am I too young to be in love? Are we too young to love? No one really explains the difference between really, really liking someone and loving them. I really, really liked the same guy from first grade all the way through fourth grade. And I think he liked me too. So did we love each other? In that moment, would I have married him? Most definitely. I vividly remember my younger self imagining the moment when he would propose with a foil ring, promising to buy a nicer one when we were old enough, one that had an unrealistically large, sparkling diamond on top. But marry him now? No. Girl, I have moved on. So I guess that answers that, I didn’t love him. I don’t love him.
You know what the problem is? I have no idea how you’re supposed to know. If there isn’t a rule book, if there aren’t any guidelines, if WikiAnswers can’t tell me, then how am I supposed to correctly identify what I’ve been waiting so long for? “You just know.” That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. You just know? Love is not an appetite. So you know when you’re hungry and you know when you’re full but you don’t just know you’re in love. That’s dumb. I mean, it sounds dumb. It is dumb, isn’t it? What if—maybe it is that simple? If it’s true, if it’s true that you just know, then I’m left to wonder only one thing: when will I know?
That brings me to thought number five hundred and thirty-four thousand two hundred and sixty-seven point two: Is love predetermined? Does someone—some psychic, maybe—know who we’re going to fall in love with? Every one of us? Do they know which of us will never fall in love…? Oh my gosh—oh my gosh, no. I can’t even go there. Next question.
Well it’s not really a question, actually. It’s just another thought. It’s something someone once told me, something totally relevant, something I just remembered. We were talking about boys and girls and what happens when boys and girls fall in love. Not babies, the simple stuff: dating, boyfriends, girlfriends, etc. He texted me that afternoon saying, “Well if they call you anything but [perfectly beautiful], they obviously don’t truly love you.” And no, it wasn’t my dad…thanks. For one, my dad doesn’t know how to text, and for another, his phone is so ancient I’m not even sure it can text.
I remember reading and rereading that message over and over again. It addressed so many things. One, boys actually do believe in love. It’s not just Justin Bieber and Harry Styles, but real life boys. The kind that walk our school hallways and punch each other and spit and stuff. Those things know what it means to love a girl. Or at least, Chris made it sound that way. Two, they know the difference between true love and—I guess—not-true love? That was pleasantly surprise. Three, words. Chris says it’s about what they call you. I disagree. I’ve been called many things: “weird,” “awkward,” “the Asian with boobs,” but the only one that ever really accurately describes me is “Lia”—and “beautiful,” of course (insert hair flip here). Charming mouths are dangerous. So it’s important we keep in mind that it’s not about what they call you or what they say, it’s about what they do. I mean, within reason. They can’t give you a dozen roses and be like “Here, these are because you suck.” That’s awkward. Awkward because his gesture contradicts his words? No, awkward because I would literally rip those twelve flowers out of his sorry hands, pluck each individual thorn and shove them one-by-one up his fleshy little arse. That’s what’s really awkward. No one gets away with that, not in this house—which isn’t really a house so much as it is a page.
There are also those of us who just don’t want to fall in love. You may not even realize it, so think about this: if every time you come close to loving or being loved and you flip out like a lobster over boiling water…this is you. You’re not alone. There’s even a song about it. “How come she’s so afraid of fallin’ in lo-o-o-o-ove?” asks One Direction. “She’s not afraid of scary movies. She likes the way we kiss in the dark, but she’s so afraid of f-f-falling in lo-o-o-o-ove, lo-o-o-o-ove.”
Well 1D, I think it’s because she doesn’t know if you love her too. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever actually have a chance, if it’s real, what you really think of her. She’s not sure if you’ll change your mind, if you’re like this with every girl, if you genuinely care. She wants to know that you’re the right one, that there’s a great chance you are the someone that was made just for her. Trust me, I know.
I’m here to affirm that there definitely someone for you. I’m sure of it. I’m a confident believer. There is someone for everyone, even when you don’t think there is, even if it’s not One Direction. There are an infinite number of directions you can go in, it doesn’t have to be that one. Maybe he’s waiting at the bus stop. Maybe he’s waking up on the other side of the planet just as you’re falling asleep. Maybe he’s copying down your homework, your quizzes, your tests, and now your phone number. Maybe he’s on stage, asking you why you’re so scared of falling in love when you’re not afraid of scary movies or kissing in the dark. The thing is, scary movies have a definite beginning and end. Love? You never know when it’ll be over, or for that matter, if it ever will be. And kissing in the dark is—well, I can’t say. It’s never happened to me before.

I have this friend. She taught me something pretty amazing this year: if you’re ever going to love someone, if you’re ever going to expect someone to love you, you have to love yourself first. Not just like yourself, love yourself. I’m not sure she even knows what she knows, but now she knows that I know that she knows.

“I want a boyfriend. All I want is a boyfriend. I just want a boyfriend,” she told me in December. I didn’t really know what to say. Everyone wants a boyfriend. Everyone wants someone to care about them, cuddle them, bring them flowers and tell them that they’re even prettier on their period. The problem is, we don’t always get what we want when we want it. Most of the time, it follows its own schedule. So that’s what I told her, he’d come around later.

“I want a boyfriend,” she told me in January. “So do I,” was all I could say. So do I.

“I give up on boyfriends. I’m weird, boys don’t like me…so whatever,” she told me in March. For the sake of simplicity, it was half true. Guys didn’t understand her. She was outspoken, serious but joking, and sometimes a little too honest, but still full of integrity. Needless to say, she wasn’t like the other girls at school. And because guys typically have brains the size of shriveled frozen peas (or at least they make it seem that way), I don’t think they really knew what to make of her. She stuck out, like really stuck out. “I think I’m just going to take time and work on myself. Boyfriends for later, I guess.”

It was the all-knowing Oprah who said when you let things go, when you “surrender,” everything tends to unfold for the better. It’s actually easier than it sounds. We just need to stop trying to control everything, stop trying to force and forge, stop pretending, and let it be what it will be. Be honest with yourself. Just surrender yourself, because the rest can take care of itself. Life—love—is kind of weird like that. Maybe it’s way simpler than we make it out to be. I think so, because Oprah is, was, and always will be right. My strangely misunderstood friend found herself an extremely understanding other. Someone to care about her, make her feel pretty and funny and smart, someone she’s been waiting so long for, the one she deserves. He is someone ballsy enough to come to her first, and who’s not “afraid of fallin’ in lo-o-o-o-ove.” He doesn’t need to be, and I think he knows that. And what do I know? There’s someone like that for everyone. I’m confident because everything seems to say, “You’re right, Lia” (which doesn’t happen often). I think you just need to let yourself see how right I am.

Love is a weird thing. Everyone knows it makes you do crazy things, like take the long way to class just so you can see him. Or, by contrast, take the extra-long way to class just so you can avoid him. Been there, done that…multiple times. I have the tardy slips to prove it. For a certain few, we are willing—even perfectly happy—to accept the consequences of going the long way. We don’t care about the extra distance or the inconvenience or the pieces of paper stamped “unexcused.” It’s kind of worth it. No, it’s definitely worth it. He may or may not have noticed. He may or may not have bothered to say “Hi.” He may or may not have even cared, but just the possibility of something happening between the two of you in those two seconds of walking past each other is enough to get you all giddy and excited inside. Yeah, it’s happened once or twice…realistically, more like thirty or forty. I think that’s kind of what your love is about. Your love is about giving, even when it may not be easy or convenient for you. It’s about sacrifice and compromise and tough decision making because you love that feeling, the feeling that makes even the worst day the best day. When it gets hard, when things aren’t picture perfect anymore, I think that’s when we know if we truly love someone.

For most of us, it’s actually fairly easy to sacrifice for the people we care about. The bigger issue is letting go of the self-conscious stuff that keeps us doing it whole-heartedly. The struggle is real. Everyone’s all, “just be yourself!” but how are you supposed to be yourself when you really, really like someone? Because when you really, really like someone you’re always wondering what they think of you, what they see in you, and what they like or don’t like about you. Naturally you want to be the things they like, and more specifically, the someone they like. I want him to like me too, but how can he like me if I’m not really me when I’m with him?

There’s a simple answer somewhere. It’s just a matter of where, and that much I wish I knew. It seems we need something that will help us accept potential rejection. Isn’t that ultimately what prevents so many of us from confessing affection? Rejection scares the life out of a lot of people. Nobody likes it or dreams of it or hopes for it. Nevertheless, everyone gets it. Maybe that’s what I—we—should be thinking about: everyone gets rejected. Taylor Swift gets rejected at least ten times an album. Not because she’s ugly (gosh, definitely not) or dumb or weird or fat (double definitely not), but because rejection is unbiased. It happens to the best of us. I’m pretty sure there were girls in high school that said “no” when spunky teenage Barack Obama asked them out to dinner or a movie, and look at him now. He’s just fine! Forty-fourth,-forty-fifth,-and-first-African-American-president fine. So now all those girls are like, “Damn it.” Or at least, I would be.

I guess love is just one of those “with the good comes the bad” things in life. “You have to risk it for the biscuit,” they say. Rejection and love seem to go hand-in-hand. If you dream of true love, one day you’ll face rejection. Facing rejection? One day you’ll find love. In my personal opinion, true, honest love is worth the occasional heartbreak. Because if you think about it, when you do find it, you’ll never have to worry about buckets of tears or mounds of tissues or wasted days in bed over the “perfect guy” again. Yay!

In the same way, rejection could be just like our mini car accident in that it’s all about perspective. It’s easy to look at the negative aspects of rejection only because they’re the most obvious. He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t want to be my boyfriend. He doesn’t like my face. He doesn’t think I’m smart. But why? Well, because he’s a dumbass. Dumb. Ass. So you should take his rejection as a sort of compliment. Maybe he knows you’re too good for him. Maybe he knows there’s someone better for you. Maybe he’s just not interested in women. The truth is, being rejected doesn’t make you a lesser person. It doesn’t make you cheap or easy or gross. It can be quite the opposite if you handle it correctly. So he found out you like him and he’s all, “Oh my gosh, no.” Good. This is good. Now you have the motivation to become the forty-fourth, forty-fifth, and first African American president, even if you’re full Asian. You could even write multiple platinum-selling albums about him and win seven Grammys for it. His rejection doesn’t define or change anything about who you are or the person you become unless you want it to.

Two people form a relationship. Both people have to be committed, honest, and in love for the relationship to be a good one. Wouldn’t you rather spend your time finding the one you’re actually meant to be with rather than changing yourself into something you’re not so you can be with him? Think of it like a jigsaw puzzle. You could, if you really wanted to, spend days carving every nook and bend just so one piece fits into the other, but the picture will never match. If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. You can’t stick a watermelon in a grape, if you know what I mean. …Don’t overthink that.

So I guess it’s time to conclude this chapter. The Lord knows I could go on forever, but for your sake, I’m going to stop rambling and move on. You’re welcome.

Wait, just one more thing. Good Luck. I know, even without knowing, that you’ll find your perfect one without ever having to change what you love about yourself—however unlikely it may seem now. So maybe you actually don’t need my wishes of good luck. Maybe you just need to try. After all, your ability to love is just one of the many things that makes you beautiful.