The Upside of Unrequited

by Becky Albertalli

I don’t entirely understand how anyone gets a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. It just seems like the most impossible odds. You have to have a crush on the exact right person at the exact right moment. And they have to like you back. A perfect alignment of feelings and circumstances. It’s almost unfathomable that it happens as often as it does.

Certain nights have this kind of electricity. Certain nights carry you to a different place from where you started.

I wish there were a secret signal you could use to communicate: HELLO. I AM OFFICIALLY COOL WITH SILENCE.

You would matter. That’s the thing. I get into this weird place sometimes where I worry about that. I’ve never told anyone this—not my moms, not even Cassie—but that’s the thing I’m most afraid of. Not mattering. Existing in a world that doesn’t care who I am.

Because there’s nausea and fog, but there’s also this: an unshakable feeling that something wonderful is about to happen.

Do boys require hairless vaginas? Is this a known thing?

I mean, here’s the thing I don’t get. How do people come to expect that their crushes will be reciprocated? Like, how does that get to be your default assumption?

Goal: don’t be weird and awkward.

But I spend a lot of time thinking about love and kissing and boyfriends and all the other stuff feminists aren’t supposed to care about. And I am a feminist. But I don’t know. I’m seventeen, and I just want to know what it feels like to kiss someone.

So, maybe I should let my heart break, just to prove that my heart can take it. Or at the very least, I need to stop being so fucking careful.

But maybe there are always tiny sad pieces inside me, waiting to be recognized and named. Maybe it’s like that for everyone.

Must neutralize awkwardness immediately.

I’m not trying to overthink things. I’m trying to be less careful. But you have to be your heart’s own goalie. And if I’m going to be rejected, I want to see it coming.

Because when a tender moment happens between any two people, I turn into an eleven-year-old boy. It is my most consistent talent.

Maybe my company is even better than making out—which is pretty much my goal as a human being, honestly.

“I’m telling you: life is too short for this bullshit.”

Not that it matters. It totally doesn’t matter. But come on: he wore the sneakers to prom?

I have to admit: there’s something really badass about truly, honestly not caring what people think about you.

I hate that I’m even thinking that. I hate hating my body. Actually, I don’t even hate my body. I just worry everyone else might.

And now I know what rejection feels like. It’s a whirlpool of suck.

I fucking hate Evan Schulmeister.

The whole idea of it seems intolerable. Falling out of love. Becoming strangers.

Falling in love is terrifying.

“Change is fucking hard. It’s fucking tragic.”

Because that’s the thing about change. It’s so painfully normal. It’s the most basic of all tragedies.

“And you know what? Love is worth wanting.”

I think every relationship is actually a million relationships. I can’t decide if that’s a bad thing.