There were so many red flags but my glasses were pink tinted

I’ve had so many crushes. At this point I don’t even recall most of them. I remember a few, though. One guy from middle school. I went to great lenghts to find his number, asking his friends who had no idea who I was without a shred of embarrassment. He would later ask me who the fuck I was when I sent him a text confessing my undying love, signed with my full name. Another guy from highschool. Even though I had a boyfriend at the time, his brown locks that would glisten like gold coins in the sunlight beside the artificial pond in front of my apartment complex made me feel like we were meant to be. He would later fall in love with me so hard that I naturally had to block him everywhere on social media to stop him from bothering me. Or the guy I met backstage before I was to sing on stage for a music contest. Our eyes met like a hundred times that day. I went on stage to butcher whatever song I had to sing. But that didn’t stop him from saving my number on his phone under the name Orange Devil.

None of these trivial experiences prepared me for the cold ass Tuesday night in mid-February, with a bag in my hands close to ripping that contained two bottles of wine and two cans of beer, waiting for my newest crush to open the door to his best friend’s house so I could get in. But his phone had died, and I didn’t know the door number, so I just stood there, in front of the apartment gate, for half an hour, every five seconds thinking to myself, you should just leave. You. Are. So. Stupid! But I didn’t. I waited, and eventually you opened the door. I was furious. But the wine cured that. Or, better yet, your desperate kiss in the kitchen when I was fumbling with the wine opener to dive into the second bottle did. Now, you’re not my crush anymore. None of these guys are. And yet, I am here, writing this.