Concrete

My two best friends at university have just astounded me with their sheer balls.

One asked a boy whom she’d just met on a date. Admitedly she was very drunk and sent the message over Facebook – but it’s still fucking ballsy.

The other friend simply sat this boy down and declared that she still liked him. She did it despite the terrfying fear of losing a friendship she’d spent so long rebuilding after the confusion between them last year.

You’ll be happy to know, he likes her too.

My friends are inspirations. It’s not about just asking a boy out, it’s putting yourself on the line like that. Being prepared to get hurt because you know you’re strong enough to get over whatever the outcome is. You will not be broken meerly by someone’s reaction.

I, on the other hand, will crumble at the slightest dent made in the concrete wall I have so carefully built up around me. This wall is a good thing in many, many ways. It makes me careful, its makes me less vulnerable, it makes me feel slightly safer against the terrifying possibilities beyond it.

However, in a lot of ways it has let me remain in this even more terrifying comfort zone. I don’t tend to be that person; when something scares me I want to do it more, because I cannot let that be my reason for not doing it.

So I’m trying to learn from my brilliant friends. I’ve sent Boy Number 1 a message after weeks of stubbornly refusing to ask to see him.

(“I don’t even CARE anymore.” I said to my friend, with my arms folded crossly. What a fantastically see-through lie.)

My phone is flashing with incoming Whatsapp messages.

I am currently refusing to look at the screen. It may take me a couple of hours and many episodes of QI before I check what he replied.

Bloody stupid decision in the first place.

My concrete wall wobbles dangerously around me.

 

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