I had another dream last night.
That boy. He responded to the last text I sent in a long, winding cluster of a text (that couldn’t possibly have happened on an iPhone in real life). Not only did it apologize, but it turned the desperation back on him. He seemed eager to see me, sorry he hadn’t been able to come the last time.
And then he came to my room at home, like my childhood room in my parent’s house, to try and get back on my good side (and get back on me). I pushed him away, kept my little world mine. He eventually wandered out.
My room transformed into a different room, that somehow was still mine and in the same location as my childhood room, across the hall from my parents. The boy came back, this time with a couple of my friends. He kept trying to get back on the same page as me. It was loud, there were smells (a potent mix of marijuana and cigarette smoke), and I tried in numerous different ways to cover up the fact that there was a LOT of illicit activity happening in my childhood home. At some point, my dad comes in, frustrated (luckily the boy wasn’t in the room) and says,
“It’s fine if you smoke, but please don’t do it while we’re trying to sleep. We can all smoke at dinner… just not now, please.”
Yeah, it was weird, but I was glad to not be in trouble.
I continued to go through my life, at “home,” with my family and friends, and the boy continued to follow, appear, and desire me. At some point, I know I forgave him and we had sex. It wasn’t groundbreaking, it wasn’t particularly romantic, but it was fine, and it was because I “gave in.”
I have to stop replying to his texts. I’m done. I’m DONE. I never even liked him, really. He’s a mess. All he wants is to sleep with me. I refuse to let him control my feelings and my thoughts.
“There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.”
— C.S. Lewis