The Upside of Unrequited

by Becky Albertalli

“I’m just going to gawk at you until I figure it out,” Will says.

Apparently, it’s because I need to woman up. If I like a guy, I’m supposed to tell him. Maybe in Cassie’s world, you can do that and have it end in making out. But I’m not so sure it works that way for fat girls.

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.

around Middle Earth Reid, I feel exactly as nervous as I’d feel around any new person. No more, no less.

Here’s a frustrating thing about me: if everyone else is happy, I usually can’t stay pissed off. My moods are conformists. It sucks, because sometimes you really want to be angry.

“My friends and I were never like, ‘Hey, let’s be friends.’ It’s more like, ‘Yeah, okay. You’re there and you’re cool.’” “That’s literally what I said to Cassie in the womb,” I say.

I guess it’s nice to imagine a roomful of people caring about what happens to you. Rooting for your happiness. They’d be pissed off when someone was a jerk to you. They’d want your crush to like you back.

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.

I know this doesn’t exactly make me unique, but I love the internet. I love it. I think the way I feel about the internet is the way some people feel about the ocean. It’s so huge and unknowable, but also totally predictable. You type a line of symbols and click enter, and everything you want to happen, happens.

Except . . . sometimes I feel like I’m the last alone person. Like maybe there aren’t seven and a half billion people in the world. Maybe there are seven and a half billion and one. I’m the one.

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.

No one tells you how hard it is, because, yay, love! And we’re so happy for them! But there’s this sharp edge to it, right? Because yeah, you’re happy for them. But you’ve also lost them.”

If someone says I’m sad, or asks me what’s wrong, or tells me not to cry, it’s like my body hears: NOW CRY. Like a command, even if I’m not actually sad.

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

I think I have a wandering kind of mind. When I’m able to rein it in, it’s a pretty cool feeling—it’s like, just for a minute, I stop wanting things. I didn’t even realize how much time I spend wanting. And yearning, and crushing, and aching. It’s like I have this perpetual sense that something’s missing.

Danielle Aldred asked me if I was worried I’d crush a guy during sex. In seventh grade. She actually asked that.

I guess I want to believe no one notices I’m fat. Or that I’m somehow pretty and fat all at once, like a Torrid model.

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

when you’re that pretty, you can date anyone, and people know you picked the geek on purpose. Like, you could have had the hot guy, but you didn’t want him. But when you’re a fat geek who likes another fat geek, everyone assumes you’re settling.

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

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. Because chubby girls don’t get boyfriends, and they definitely don’t have sex. Not in movies—not really—unless it’s supposed to be a joke. And I don’t want to be a joke.

“Okay, I just gotta say it.” The guy touches my arm. “You are fucking gorgeous for a big girl.”

And as he drifts back into the crowd, I hear him mutter, “Fat bitch.” Will looks at me. “Okay, that was the hottest fuck you moment I’ve ever witnessed.”

I feel very, very alive.

“Change is fucking hard. It’s fucking tragic.” “Change can go fuck itself,”

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

“Man, you’re the cutest.” I catch him winking at Carter. “You know, if I’d ever liked girls, you’d have been the one, Molly.”

And for a minute, we just stand there like that, looking at each other. He shakes his head. “Molly, you’re killing me.” “What?” He pauses. His cheeks are pink. “You just look really, really pretty.”

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

I think this is me letting go. Bit by bit. I think these are our tiny steps away from each other. Making not-quite-identical footprints in not-quite-opposite directions. And it’s the end of the world and the beginning of the world