The Upside of Unrequited

by Becky Albertalli

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 guess it’s just this feeling that my body is secretly all wrong. Which means any guy who assumes I’m normal is going to flip his shit if we get to the point of nakedness. Whoa. Nope. Not what I signed up for.

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.

That’s very convenient for us. And I really think he likes you, Molly.” I shake my head. “No he doesn’t.” “Okay, you know what’s fucked up?” She looks me straight in the eye. “That you don’t even seem to think that’s a possibility.” Well, I don’t. But I do. I mean, I honestly don’t know.

But I just need something tonight. I need to not feel like myself for a minute. I’m wavy hair Molly. Cardigan-less Molly. Rum and Coke Molly.

But I don’t see how it could be. Because Will is so cute and so cool,

and I’m just me. And I’m way out of my depth. It’s like trying on a dress that doesn’t quite fit.

But you have to be your heart’s own goalie. And if I’m going to be rejected, I want to see it coming.

But there’s this awfulness that comes when a guy thinks you like him. It’s as if he’s fully clothed and you’re naked in front of him. It’s like your heart suddenly lives outside your body, and whenever he wants, he can reach out and squeeze it.

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

Because I have to admit: there’s something really badass about truly, honestly not caring what people think about you. A lot of people say they don’t care. Or they act like they don’t care. But I think most people care a lot. I know I do.

My brain has turned the whole thing into a hazily lit movie reel, Valencia-filtered, to a soundtrack of Bon Iver.

Ooooof course I would read a book that would be so authentically me 😆

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.

Fuck.

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

Ugh. And there it is. Not really a compliment

I managed not to notice how warm it is today. I probably don’t need my cardigan. But I wear it, like armor.

But not to me. Because in hazily lit movies, when the girl pulls her shirt up over her head, she stops being me. The hazily lit girl is never me. She has a flat golden stomach and cute little boobs, and you can see the boy falling for her. You can read it on his face.

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

Because when you spend so much time just intensely wanting something, and then you actually get the thing? It’s magic.”

Because in all my years of watching movies, I’ve seen this look on a lot of boys’ faces. But I’ve never seen someone look that way at me.

I feel my cheeks burn. Here’s the thing: I’m used to being told I have a pretty face. Or pretty hair, or pretty eyes. But it’s different, being called beautiful. Just beautiful, without conditions. And for some reason, it’s even stranger hearing it from Grandma Betty than from Reid.