Reghan Funderburk: Confession

Confession

by Reghan Funderburk ’20

“I wonder what love is,” I replied.

Upon his approach and my listening to him, I found it easy to assume that the boy was of the variety I had met before. My first impression of him was likely lost in a sea of lectures and studying. My second first impression was likely forgotten in a crowd of faces. My third first impression could have been forgotten due to my fatigue that day. I likely had many of these “first impressions,” followed by my forgetting his existence. For all intents and purposes, he was a stranger. Yet upon our first exchange, for some reason, the words “I love you” came from his mouth. Words I had never said so easily.

I had heard so many similar confessions throughout my life to the point I found them annoying. None of these people knew me, so how was it they were able to claim they loved me? Was love such an easy thing? If so how come I had yet to feel it? Why couldn’t I feel it? My only knowledge of love came from the novels I’d read, but though there must be some things about the feelings that were fictional, I generally understood the concept. No, those confessions couldn’t be love.

But perhaps I was bored, and that boredom conjured curiosity. Perhaps I saw something witty in his eyes (or at least assumed it was wit, out of convenience). Either way, I let the conversation continue.

“Uh...” the red haired boy said. He scratched the back of his head. We were strangers, but his nervous expression stirred something inside of me, a sudden feeling that sharply contrasted my previous feelings of boredom and curiosity. The sudden shift of emotion having been strong enough to make me take notice made me curious again, but for a different reason. I wondered what that sudden emotion was. There was no way for me to externally evaluate my feelings and compare them to the emotions of others, but I certainly did not think it was love. So what was it? This emotion—I figured the only way to get rid of it was to name it. Without diagnosing myself, I would not know whether it was harmful or not—or how to treat it.

“Come on, let’s get something to eat,” I said. See, I assumed my feeling was something similar to pity. I wondered why I pitied him… just as I found it strange he could claim he loved me without knowing anything about me, I wondered if I could really pity him. It wasn’t as if he was a homeless man on the side of the road. Rather, he was well-dressed and clean-shaven. There was a possibility this pity came about because he had fallen in love with the wrong girl, only to have his heart broken…but if that interpretation were true, would that not be me admitting that it is possible to fall in love with a stranger? To avoid an ontological shock, I quickly ruled out that possibility.

“Certainly,” he said, the confusion in his face immediately being replaced with a beaming smile. Did he think that meant I accepted him? What a laugh!

I paused. Then I examined my own thoughts of amusement. Did I find the boy’s confession and this situation funny? Why would I laugh at a boy whom I pitied? Or make his life worse by feeding him false hope? No, what I was feeling couldn’t be pity. I wasn’t so mean-spirited that I would toy with his emotions just for the fun of it. Yet, I did think I began this conversation for the sake of curiosity, nothing more. So what was that feeling in my stomach I had thought was pity a few moments ago?

I considered a few other options as I walked. First: gathering the facts. Well, in honesty, the so-called facts were more like pseudo-facts, since the world of emotions within my mind was so subjective. Still I reached no conclusion.

I didn’t look at the boy once in the five minutes it took to walk to the nearest cafe. To be honest, until I sat down, I was completely uncertain whether or not he was still following behind me until he reappeared in my line of sight. I thought again about that emotion, and when the boy came back from ordering me a coffee, I sighed. Even though it was impossible for me to take out my emotion for a closer examination, I thought I could get at least get a second opinion… even if his was also subjective, it would be better than nothing.

“Do I love you?” I asked him.

“Do you want to?” He said, poking his straw at the boba at the bottom of the cup and slurping up some of the tea.

Answering a question with another question. What a rude thing to do. But maybe this was his revenge for my vague ‘I wonder what love is’ to his ‘I love you’. If that was the case, his response was justified, as I knew from past experiences that he wanted a direct response.

Do I want to love this boy? A strange question, I thought. What did it matter if I wanted to feel a certain way? I knew that my heart would work however it wanted in spite of my mind’s better intentions. The question of wanting to love someone wouldn’t change anything. I sipped the coffee and realized it was sweet.

“Yes. I do.” I said it only after finishing the entire cup. I was sure I didn’t love this stranger, but I did think I wanted to. If I had to pick, I would rather be in love than not in love. As far as whether I wanted to love him specifically, the answer was the same. I had been void of that emotion, but if I could love this random stranger, maybe I would be able to feel that rose-colored emotion, understand what it meant.

He smiled at me and said, “Then you are at the doorway.”

I found his response accurate.