Desire Lines

Give me an orgasm, I dare you! Or maybe don’t. Actually, please never touch me.

12:42 AM 18.01.2026

Dead God, please tell me. Why does life have to be this insane search to find love when something as fleeting as that is far from guaranteed?

I feel so very pitiful. Pathetic is what I am. One of my friends (Hayes) told me that I deserved love, even if it sometimes does not feel like I do, and I started bawling. I watched the first season of “Fleabag,” and I started bawling. God, I’m even crying right now.

I fear that all of my efforts swearing away the love that I was too stubborn and hurt to accept has jinxed me forever.

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I am putting on a facade. Right now, even, probably. Constantly, it is almost as if I am reshaping myself, testing out something new that I liked, which I saw in someone else.

There was one boy whom I dated not too long ago, and with him, I wanted to be almost this sort of sex appeal. Of course, this did not work very well as I am scared shitless by anything of the sort. I would not even kiss him.

He tried to kiss me, of course, but I refused. He said, “Look at me.” I said no, making sure not to even slightly turn my face in his direction for fear he would leap upon me.

I asked him questions with ease, the sort of questions that no one admits they think about. I did not really care, but I was curious if he would even respond. It was a funny thing, walking around church grounds asking about masturbation and whatnot. Vulgar, I know—but that version of me was not really me, I was simply curious if I could pull it off. Acting in a way. Pretending to be this alluring, erotic woman is sometimes a fun game to me, but maybe that is where I went wrong in that relationship?

It is a funny thing, finding a person with whom you can be yourself—fully yourself—with. I found that person, and I lost that person, both in an instant, and I mourn that loss with every fiber of my being. I fear that it may never work out, not even in the distant future when no putrid evil grandmother could stop us from loving each other as we so truly do.

I do also wonder, however, if I was merely an experiment to him. Just another one of his sweethearts, as I had heard of so many before. Fawning over them, he did, and he told it all to me. I was his confidant, his loyal best friend who was just that. His best friend. That was all I could ever be, and suddenly I was not.

Hand on my thigh, making me blush till an unassuming bystander asked if he had something on his face. Fingers that touched his lips to then touch mine, not as direct but almost far more meaningful. Driving, holding my hand, squeezing it tight, accidentally somehow managing to barely miss a finger in my eye, then putting his hand over my face, then laughing at his own confusion as to why he does that. God, I had never felt like that before in my life, leaving me to question if I could ever feel such a way again.

So pure, so very pure, yet so very fleeting.

We had the interaction, the climax of it all, where we loved each other, and then we fall. Where one of us says I love you and the other claims that it will pass, but I fear it will not, for time has lapsed, and here I am still, at the altar, begging for forgiveness.

Maybe I am pathetic?

I liked who he was for who he was, nothing more and nothing less. That was the rare thing. That was the thing that hit me by surprise. Being in love with my best friend since I was thirteen, but not being able to admit, let alone acknowledge, it until now, was one of the most profound whirlwind of emotions. However, what if there was still imagination involved in my infatuation? What if I still was adding on a sort of fabrication, a fantasy to the already lovely him.

It hit me that I was in love with my best friend in November. It hit me that I might have really just had a phase when it comes to liking girls in December—but really, who actually knows about that one? It hit me that my best friend actually liked me back. It hit me that my best friend believed it could never work. Then it worked. Then it didn’t. Now it is January, and I want to die.

Desire lines have wrinkled my soul, for I have done so much yearning that the grooves shall forever remain.

Just the other day, I watched him play the song on piano that he wrote while on the phone with me. I felt my heart go out to him, and it was almost as if I could feel our subconscious beings dancing to the smooth jazz. Anyone could have seen it in my eyes. My love is pure and resilient, no matter how it torments me.

Watch me write a book about this whole putrid affair.

Yes, don’t worry, maman. Je vais très bien.

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Lots of love,

Jubilee xoxo