I wish I could tell her how hard how hard this has been, falling for her, falling in love with her, learning about her from as close as I dared, encumbered by a crippling shyness and the intimidating public perception of her. Caring about her, thinking about her every day, six years, against hope that someday fate might afford me the chance to tell her face to face what I should have said the first minute I saw her.
Realizing that even if she knew these things she’ll never feel the same way.
That she can never feel the same way.
That’s how long it’s been. Six years. A little more, actually. May 4, 2011. My heart has been hers ever since. I bet at times it wouldn’t seem like it to her. Guys do some fantastically stupid s%$# in the name of pride, ego, insecurity, and whatever else, and well, I wonder what she’d think if she knew I’d shot video of one of her tennis matches through a fence? A fence!? That wasn’t easy. Not when you always shoot with autofocus. That’s how I’ve spent my vacations, through the years, trying to give her some memories from her past – her friends, her past opponents – that she might want to see again sometime. Never mind the reality that the chance of her actually watching them , let alone liking them, is probably less than zero. But I hoped. And I dreamed. These are the foolish acts of a hopeless dreamer.
But then I saw it. That I was hitting my head against the wall, metaphorically.
It finally dawned on me. Hit me like a ton of bricks, even as the clues were surely there, obvious to anyone with open eyes. If she bothers with her social media she must think I am a fool, or an idiot. Or probably much worse. Much worse.
For the fact is, she is royalty, up there, on her plane, and I’m down here, on mine, and that can never change, and I can never be what she can love. She is is tennis player, tennis coach, model, celebrity, VIP, socialite, jetsetter, and professional fun-seeker. She hangs with athletes and models and actors and musicians and high octane professionals. Maybe she was just meant to love something else.
I wish so much that it were possible that she could feel the same feelings, but I know it’s not. That’s my dream, not hers.
So, dreamgirl, I’m not sorry I fell in love with you, but I sincerely apologize to you if my doing so hurt or embarass you in any way. I imagine you must want to hurl at the thought of someone like me liking you. I don’t even like me either. I really didn’t mean to offend you or your friends.
I hope you find happiness in your life. I hope you meet the someone who will make your eyes bright and your heart come alive with the rhythm of Springtime in Paris.
Take comfort, fair angel, that you will haunt my dreams the rest of my days. I mean it. I know now there won’t be anyone. There can’t. I’ve never felt this way before and never will again. You were The Girl.