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If perfect were a person, I’m looking at him.
So when I say that my shriveled-up heart has space for him alone, it’s a big duh. In the last few hours, this video has gained thousands of comments from girls who are completely in love with him, too. We are the fangirls. The crazies. The ones who only end up with the guy in our extensive fanfictions. Mine, personally, releases weekly on Tuesdays and would make my sister very, very proud if only she knew it existed.
After all, it’s packed full of the kind of drama she loves.
The kind of drama my mother would claim is wasting my talent.
If I’m honest, I think wasting my talent means never finishing the hundred “original” stories I’ve started. In that regard, my computer is a graveyard of talent. The place where my talent goes to die. It’s not like I’m writing so I can query agents and wind up in Barnes and Noble. No. I’m just…writing to stave off the collapse of my mental health for one more day.
Pretending Doliver’s singing his songs to me fulfills that somewhat important goal.
Yep.
Doliver laughs as the guitar chords hum to a halt. “Well. I hope you like it, beautiful. Remember, this one’s for you. And only you. I love you.”
When the video cuts to the end screen, I let a tiny, fragile sigh out, rewind, and let him go again.
Honestly, he’s probably a jerk. I mean, really. What nice guy looks lovingly into the camera at millions of people, and says that stuff? Yeah. Exactly. I bet he’s with a different girl every night.
Disgusting.
I roll over, find Oxford tucked in on the other side of my bed, and pet his little head. “You’re the only guy for me, aren’t you, baby? Yes, you are.”
Oxford opens his eyes, looks at me, looks at my phone, and shimmies farther under the covers.
“I know. I know. You hate him. I should trust that. You are the smartest chihuahua in the world. But, see, I am weak to dimples.” I show Oxford my phone a second before only his little black nose is visible. “And he has dimples.”
Oxford yips quite pitifully.
“What’s so important about dimples?” I rest on my back, hold my phone above my head, and watch Doliver sing. With dimples. Precious. I murmur, “I don’t actually know. Maybe they’re just very…kissable.”
My phone drops on my face, colliding with my skull. “Ow.” I rub my poor forehead as Oxford pokes his face back out from under the sheets to make sure I’m okay. Surely. He’s sweet like that.
Puffing, I mutter, “Dimples make boys look endearing. And endearing things are kissable. It’s why I’m always kissing you, you know? You’re the most darling little puppy a girl could ask for. You don’t even need dimples. Just a cute little waggy tail, and, on occasion, a stuffed taco.”
Speaking of…
I rip myself away from dolivers_not_trending in order to pull up my Instagram profile, which is one hundred percent a collection of Oxford in various outfits. He’s a model. And people love him. And the validation of the three thousand followers who leave hearts and comments helps me feel less alone in this big scary world.
Sure, it’s been over a year since I moved to Virginia. Sure, my only real friend is still my sister. Sure, my attempt at making friends with the bookstore clerk at Page Turner somehow devolved into my sharing my entire life story and her asking if I was paying with cash or card.
Suffice to say, the hearts and comments from faceless accounts are the thread of socialization I’m hanging on to.
It’s hard to be an adult.
Even if I meet someone I click with, then what? Do you just ask for their phone number in the chip aisle at Martyn’s Grocery Mart? What if they don’t text in the same tone and you can’t tell if they’re happy or bothered by your messages? Some people can’t stand phone calls.
Therefore, I’m a terrible puppy mom.
Exploiting my cute dog in an effort to simulate human connection through positive affirmations online is not healthy. But it’s what we have…
Against my will, I fall asleep while overusing emojis and writing “thank you” with seven u’s.
Then, as it is wont to do, tomorrow comes, bringing with it the despair of work.
¤
With a smile plastered on my face, I stare blankly at the cursor blinking on my screen. This is above my pay grade. Far, far above my pay grade.
