Illustration by Ren O’Hare

 

Words from our Sex Editor Alice:

The following is the first installment of our new series called ‘Perspectives.’ The articles in this series will, hopefully, provide thought-provoking, entertaining, and relatable snapshots into students’ experiences navigating relationships, self-discovery, and other affairs of the heart. Please enjoy the work of our extremely talented writers.

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They say that when you know, you know. When you have a crush on someone, there are a million different signs: your heart races, your palms sweat, you’re desperate to impress them. I spent my early teen years very into romance, reading fan-fiction and reblogging gif-sets of my favourite couples on tumblr. I dreamt of meet-cutes in kitschy coffee-shops with indie music playing in the background. I’d sip a frothy drink as I read my book and then, across the room, lock eyes with the guy who’d change my life. His features were always vague. I didn’t really have a specific ‘type’, or have any idea what traits I wanted in a boyfriend, but thought that I’d figure that out eventually. I’d meet him, and I’d just know.

 

I didn’t know a thing when it came to you. I didn’t know why I was so drawn to you on the first day of secondary school – the badges on your jumper, your anime backpack, your smile that showed off your train-track braces. I knew that gay and bisexual people existed, somewhere, but there was no queer-scene in rural Ireland. It was a time before Hayley Kiyoko graced the sapphic teen population with “Girls Like Girls”, before this country even had marriage equality. I didn’t have any close friends at this stage of my life. I used to spend hours changing my outfits and trying to do a smokey-eye just to hang out at your house, rehearsing topics of conversation in the shower before going into school, and staring at you in the canteen and try to count the freckles on your face. I thought that these were normal things that you did when you wanted to be friends with someone who was so much cooler than you. Maybe some of these things were “normal.” But what this didn’t explain was why I felt so upset when you started bringing up the boys that you liked, why I went home and cried along to Taylor Swift songs when you told me that you were going on a date with one. I told myself that it must be because I had a crush on him, too – on this guy that I didn’t really know, who had  laughed when his friend called me fat – but it was really because I didn’t want to lose you. I was already jealous of your other friends and the fact that I wasn’t as important to you as you were to me. I started avoiding you. I tried flirting with guys to get your attention. I kept on hoping that while you were with him, I was on your mind, that you were missing me. But, when I eventually broke down and messaged you, your cheery response made it clear that you hadn’t even noticed that I’d been trying to pull myself away. 

 

I had my first kiss at the Gaeltacht that summer – with a guy – and was relieved that I enjoyed it enough to confirm that I did, in fact, like boys. But then, when we went back to school for Transition Year, and our eyes met for the first time in a month, I felt the same flutter that I had with him. Then you introduced me to your new boyfriend, and I smiled and tried to shut my feelings down again. I threw myself into romantic situations with any guy who expressed any kind of interest in me, chasing the confirmation that I was like you, that I was normal. But when your boyfriend cheated on you and I watched you cry, all I could think was that I never would have done that to you. That I would have loved you better than he ever could. 

 

We grew apart soon after this – different timetables, different interests. I joined a Youth Theatre Ireland group where I met other openly queer kids for the first time in my life. One of the girls asked me out. We went to the cinema and I didn’t know what to do. I had no idea what script I should follow, I’d spent so long admiring you in secret. Stolen seconds at sleepovers or getting ready for nights out, stroking blush across your freckled cheeks, breathing in your perfume, wishing that I could reach out and stroke your hair that curled on my pillow… I had no idea what to do now that there was a real girl in front of me that wanted me to touch her. It took me a long time to learn, and even now I am inclined to get the lines between friendship and romance blurred when it comes to my relationships with women. It’s a cliché to say that I find it easier to get along with guys, but I am still afraid of coming on too strong with the girls that I want to be friends with. I feel like I’m fourteen years old again, practicing things to say to you in the mirror. 

 

Flashes of your new life pop up on my Instagram feed every so often. You’re in college studying something. I don’t know what, but I hope you love it. Your dark hair is short now, and it suits you. You have new clothes, new friends, and a new boyfriend. He seems nice. I’m not jealous exactly, but part of me wishes that I could have been the one who made you that happy. Are you happy? I hope you are, you deserve it. I wish that I’d told you that. That’s my biggest regret, more than anything else. I was too awkward, too shy, too scared of giving myself away. I was so scared of losing you, of scaring you off by letting you know how much you meant to me. So scared that I sat there silently when you cried, agonising over what to do, what to say. I was worried that if I reached out to hug you, I’d never be able to let you go. That, if I opened my mouth to tell you how wonderful you were, how beautiful, you’d suddenly know and it would change everything. In my desperation to keep you as a friend, I was a bad friend. I don’t know how fair it is for me to blame myself, because I didn’t know what I was doing until it was too late. If it had been easier for me to admit it to myself, to recognise the feelings that I was having, things might have been different. I probably would have gotten over you a lot more quickly and written a lot less bad poetry. I can’t blame you for that either, because you were a good friend to me. It’s not your fault that I couldn’t recognise that I wanted more.