White Whale

I should have told him sooner. We'd avoided our feelings since 6th grade, but we grew into different people when we finally began dating at 21.

I never got to confess my own feelings. Kenneth found out in 6th grade when I sat across the table from Will Lewis, trying to get him to guess my crush. I thought he'd never guess, so I let him play in the first place. However, I couldn't contain my smile at the mention of Kenneth's name. Will proudly shouted how I liked Kenneth right in his face before running down the hallways, boasting that he knew who I liked. Embarrassing, yes, but Kenneth never minded too much. The easiness of our relationship is one of the many things I idealized about him. 

Describing Kenneth as a person is challenging, even now. I would've said he was cute back then. Yet there are better ways to determine a life partner than attractiveness. He loved squirrels, which dominated his personality when I knew him. People should have given him more credit for his empathy, especially with animals. He carried a giant backpack, a bottomless pit where he stored his things to tinker with. I had seen, among other things, a remote control car and a headlight come out of that backpack. He'd take them apart in class just to see how they worked. I sat behind him in every class, watching and waiting for a chance to have a stilted conversation. 

Later that year, Kenneth invited me to the winter dance. It would be the first of several dances we'd attend together. I was optimistic about the future of our relationship in the days leading up to the dance. This chaste romance would eventually blossom into a strong relationship, and the best way to prove it would be to kiss his cheek on that magical night. All my friends encouraged me, congratulating me on my new boyfriend. 

The dance came and went. My idealism about Kenneth often omitted one crucial detail- we were awkward around each other. We must've looked fools in my sparkly blue dress and his oversized matching teal suit. I could barely find a decent conversation topic, let alone kiss his cheek. We danced to a slow song, which should have been the perfect moment to confess my undying love. Yet, I avoided eye contact and laughed sheepishly at everything he said. I left, having accomplished nothing. 

More incidents of these almost-confessions infrequently happened from 6th to 12th grade. They came as cryptic notes and words dying in my throat when we made eye contact. I always assumed I'd find the courage, but it never came. I let Kenneth pass me by through every stifled conversation. None of our dances were romantic enough for a dramatic admission of feelings; it would almost cheapen the experience. Kenneth became crystallized among my friends as a white whale, someone perpetually unattainable. So close, yet so, so far. 

I was devastated when Kenneth transferred to the school just down the street. I grieved him like a wife who discovered her husband died at war. Strong at first, but eventually faded into clarity. He was not the right person for me. My reticence when confessing feelings signified a more extensive problem- a dysfunctional relationship. We couldn't communicate. My emotions became a fond memory, and I found I had more fun with my friends instead. 

However, my rationality was short-lived, as I transferred to the same school for a better education. I knew, however, that Kenneth would be there, ready to destroy all my progress. Surely enough, we spotted each other and began talking again. He'd roped me back in with ease. 11th grade found us as wiser people who were better at communication but fell short of the budding relationships around us. They had an element we didn't. Old habits died hard as we attended prom together. We still looked fools in my sparkly blue dress and his matching black suit. Kenneth asked me to be his girlfriend this time after my friends accosted him, but it felt like a gimmick, something informal. He didn't want to be my boyfriend; he was trying to please my friends. My white whale continued eluding me. 

College saw us drift apart entirely. I thought the romance had died, and fondness took its place. Our relationship was a trial run for real-world relationships. He confessed his love to me during my junior year of college. I was going through an identity crisis at the time, and I rejected him. These were the words I had wanted to hear since sixth grade, and I was turning them down. My white whale had beached right in front of me. The guilt gnawed at me, and that's when I decided to begin dating him a year later. 

Kenneth was so happy to be dating me. He'd tell me he loved me every night, but I couldn't return the favor. His affections were too much, and I often couldn't spend time with him because of my job. I felt terrible that I couldn't afford to make time. I'd opened up about my mental health, something I could've never accomplished in an awkward conversation. He didn't understand, and despite his offers for hugs and kisses, I quickly realized that we should've dated a long time ago. We should've confessed our feelings as children and discovered we were wrong for each other. I would've taken a dramatic middle school breakup over a very adult one. 

After two weeks of dating, I broke up, ultimately cutting him out of my life. When I finally cut him out, I quickly saw all the flaws my idealism had kept me from seeing. We were incompatible in every sense of the word. Physically, mentally, sexually, socially, and especially politically. We had nothing in common, which explains the lack of conversation. Our lives were completely different, and our paths were not meant to cross again. I learned two lessons that day: communicate your feelings early and don't date out of guilt.