The Girl Who Loved Too Hard

There were two versions of Clara. The first was the girl everybody knew. She was playful, loud when she was comfortable, stubborn when she believed she was right, and capable of turning the most boring afternoon into something worth remembering. She laughed at things that weren't even funny, teased her friends without mercy, and could spend an entire evening talking about absolutely nothing. She was the friend who would say, "I'm not even going out today," then somehow be the first person asking everybody what they were wearing. She was the girl who could turn a simple conversation into an argument, an argument into laughter, and laughter into a memory her friends would bring up for months. Clara loved her people. She loved the random calls, the unnecessary gossip, the jokes that made no sense to anybody outside their little circle. She loved sitting around with her friends, talking about their plans, their problems, the people they liked, and the people they swore they were never going to talk to again. Especially those people. Because Clara had always believed that life was too short to be miserable over somebody who wasn't paying her bills. At least, that was what she told everybody. "Me? Cry over a man? Please. I have other things to do." She had said those exact words one afternoon while lying across her friend's bed, scrolling through her phone with the confidence of a woman whose heart had never been broken. Her friend Nia had looked at her from the other side of the room. "You said the same thing last month." "And?" "You were crying two days later." Clara lifted her head. "That one was different." "How?" "Because I actually liked him." Nia burst out laughing. Clara grabbed a pillow and threw it at her. "You're so annoying!" "And you're so dramatic!" "Please, get out of my face." Neither of them moved. That was how friendship worked in Clara's world. Insults were affection. Arguments were entertainment. Silence never lasted long enough to become uncomfortable. She had people who knew her moods, people who could tell when she was pretending to be angry, people who knew that when she said she didn't care, she might actually care a little. And perhaps that was one of Clara's greatest contradictions. She was easy to be around, but not everybody knew how deeply she felt things. She could laugh with a room full of people and still go home thinking about one sentence somebody had said to her. She could act unbothered when someone disappointed her, then lie awake at night wondering why they had done it. She could advise her friends to walk away from people who treated them badly, only to struggle with the same decision when it was her own heart involved. But nobody saw that part of her immediately. Most people saw the smile first. And Clara smiled easily. She had always been a lover girl, although she would never have admitted just how much. She liked affection. She liked attention when it felt genuine. She liked remembering little details about people and being remembered in return. She liked the idea of having someone who would call just because they wanted to hear her voice. Someone who would ask if she had eaten. Someone who would notice when she became unusually quiet. Someone who would choose her without making her feel as though she were competing for a place in their life. It wasn't that she wanted an extravagant kind of love. She wanted the little things that made love feel real. A message in the morning. A random call in the afternoon. A person who could be her friend, her peace, her gist partner, and her favourite person to annoy. Someone who would take her out, make her laugh, listen when she spoke, and never make her feel embarrassed for caring. She wanted a relationship that didn't have to be hidden. She wanted to be able to like somebody without wondering who else they were calling baby. And if she was being completely honest with herself, she wanted to be loved in a way that made her feel safe enough to stop questioning whether she was wanted. But those were the thoughts Clara kept to herself. In public, she was the girl who rolled her eyes whenever her friends started discussing love. "All of you should rest," she would say. "If a man wants you, he will show you. It's not that difficult." Then somebody would ask her what she would do if a man she liked started acting differently. Clara would shrug. "I'll leave him." The answer always came quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. Because Clara had a theory about herself. She believed that if she ever found herself in a situation where somebody failed to love her properly, she would recognize it immediately. She would refuse to beg. She would not compete with another woman. She would not allow sweet words to confuse her judgment. She would simply walk away. She had seen enough unhappy situations to know that love was not supposed to feel like a constant examination. And she had promised herself that she would never be the girl who stayed somewhere she wasn't wanted. It was a beautiful promise. Unfortunately, promises made before life tests them are often the easiest ones to break. On the afternoon everything quietly began, Clara was doing absolutely nothing important. She was lying on her bed with one leg hanging over the edge, a half-finished drink on the bedside table, and her phone balanced against a pillow. Nia was on a call with her, complaining about a situation Clara had already heard about three times. "So tell me why he viewed my status and didn't reply to my message." Clara made a sound of disbelief. "Ah. So now we're investigating status views?" "Clara, be serious." "I am serious! What do you want me to do? Should I arrest him?" "You're not helping." "Okay, okay. Maybe he's busy." "He posted a picture ten minutes ago." Clara burst out laughing. "Ah! So the man is not busy. He's just busy avoiding you." "Clara!" "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" She was not sorry. Nia started laughing too, and within seconds, the entire conversation had become another one of their usual episodes. That was the thing about Clara. She could make people feel lighter without even trying. She didn't need to have all the answers. Sometimes she only needed to be there, making jokes until the person on the other end remembered how to smile. Her phone vibrated against the pillow. A message from another friend. Friend: Babe, where are you? Clara: In my house. Where else would I be? Friend: Come outside later. Clara: For what? Friend: Must there be a reason? Clara: Yes. I'm a very busy woman. Friend: Busy doing what? Clara looked around her room. At the clothes scattered across the chair. The untouched notebook on her table. The drink she had forgotten about. She typed: Clara: Mind your business. Then she laughed at her own reply. Nia was still talking when another notification appeared. Clara ignored it. She was in the middle of explaining why a particular boy was not worth anybody's tears when she heard her friend's voice change. "Wait." Clara paused. "What?" "Do you remember the guy I told you about?" "Which guy?" "The one who knows my friend." Clara frowned. "You'll have to be more specific. You know plenty of people." Nia laughed. "Okay, the guy who was asking about you." Clara sat up a little. "Me?" "Yes, you." "Why?" "How am I supposed to know? Maybe he likes you." Clara immediately made a face, even though Nia couldn't see it. "Ah-ah. I haven't done anything." "Nobody said you did anything!" "Then why is he asking about me?" "Clara, must you question everything?" "Yes." Nia sighed dramatically. "His name is Damien." Clara repeated it absentmindedly. "Damien." The name meant nothing to her. Not yet. She didn't know his voice. She didn't know what he looked like beyond whatever vague description her friend had given. She didn't know whether he was funny, quiet, arrogant, or the kind of person who believed every woman who smiled at him wanted to marry him. She knew nothing about him. And she was perfectly comfortable with that. "So?" Clara asked. "So what?" "You said he was asking about me. What did he say?" Nia laughed. "Why are you suddenly interested?" "I'm not interested! I'm asking a question." "Okay, madam. I'll ask my friend to tell him to message you." Clara rolled her eyes. "Nobody should message anybody. I'm just asking." "Sure." "Nia." "Yes, baby?" "Don't annoy me." Nia laughed so hard that Clara had to pull the phone away from her ear. And that was the end of the conversation. Or so Clara thought. She returned to her scrolling, forgot about the mysterious Damien, and spent the rest of the afternoon arguing with her friends about where they should go and who was going to pay for what. By evening, she had completely forgotten his name. She didn't know that somewhere else, a young man had heard about her too. She didn't know that he had asked his friend who the playful girl in the pictures was. She didn't know that her name had come up in a conversation she wasn't part of. And she certainly didn't know that the man who would eventually make her question everything she believed about love had not yet sent her a single message. To Clara, it was an ordinary day. She laughed. She gisted. She annoyed her friends. She went to bed without thinking about anybody new. And for that night, at least, she was still the girl who believed that if a man ever made her choose between her peace and his attention, she would choose her peace without hesitation. She had no idea how difficult that choice could become. End of Chapter One.