I wanted to be wrong. That was all I wanted, just to be wrong. I think one of the biggest problems facing intelligent people is that we can see the patterns, understand what will happen based upon previous experience. While this seems like a good thing, it means we can see something clearly, and still be helpless to change it. Ignorance is bliss.
I wanted to be wrong, when we started talking again. Someone who never called or imed me suddenly began talking all on his own. I wanted to believe it was because he missed our friendship, missed me. He started talking about coming to visit me, and in my heart I knew why. But I wanted to be wrong.
He talked about plane tickets and dates and wanted to know if I’d be visiting up there soon. Someone who never had time suddenly had so much of it. So I went to visit, knowing what would happen. I wanted to be wrong.
He offered me the bed instead of the couch, and I knew. I woke up to him kissing my neck. I ignored him, still wanting to be wrong.
Some small part of me still held out that I might be wrong. But as the weeks and months passed following my trip, the phone stayed silent. His visit to see me was never discussed again because he never called after I left that morning. I had always been too scared to find out, never wanting to know the truth. But there it was, undeniable proof of what I was worth to him. No more pretending. I had wanted to be wrong.
But I was right.