What I don't understand: Friday afternoon

Back in May, it seems that we left things--at, I might add, your instigation--somewhere around the intersection of "we're still friends" and "but I can't really talk to you." And that hurt, a lot.

I knew, of course, that eventually I was going to start seeing you in the library again, that it was going to come as a bodily shock to me whether I wanted it to or not--and it did, even on that Monday before my exam, when I was so tired I could barely see and I didn't even talk to you, but that's the physical sensation (and if that's not a kind of syncope, then all of this is for nothing) that broke through even that.

So the next time I see you is Friday the 13th. It is a strange day overall, the kind of day that I could write an entire novel about and while this isn't the most fucked up thing that could happen at the library it's also not completely the least either. Three sets of computers away and I spend the entire afternoon acting like I'm in highschool trying to make eye contact but also trying not to look like I am, "He must know I'm here," I think to myself but because of the way we left things, I don't feel like I can deliberately go over there and talk to you--I get close once (because you are sitting near a certain group of shelves that I do have occasion to use periodically) but I can't tell if you are concentrating really hard or concentrating really hard on not seeing me, so I go back to peering out from behind my computer while reading The Discourse of the Syncope and generally trying to look busy. I decide that if I leave first I will at least walk by and say hello. And then you look like you're leaving without acknowledging my presence and that hurts--a lot. But then you come back and you do come to talk to me and you're the one who's all like, "We should get a drink next week"--which you have pretty much never suggested ever and which I don't feel like I could suggest on my own, but because it's your idea, I say okay, even look at my calendar to see what would work. You say you'll call me but you don't. On Monday afternoon you are sitting six feet away from me on the other side of the line of computers with a girl from your department and I learn a lot in a very short time about the syncope, and we make only brief eye contact as I leave. I finally email on Tuesday night (largely against my better judgment, but my Wednesday plans with E. had been deferred until next week at this point and I needed more to look forward to this week) and you get back to me the next day saying you totally do want to get a drink, asking me about my schedule, but then listing all the deadlines you have. And I'm kind of thinking already--way to go, dude, why are you even trying to make plans with anyone if you knew you had that coming up--but when we fail to cross paths on Wednesday night and end up emailing instead you say something that at least suggests to me why you asked about my plans in the next 72 hours and it does piss me off ever so slightly. But I say that maybe I'll text after a social obligation on Thursday night. Which I do, following up with a voicemail--one of three to different people, all of which go unanswered until the next day. You send me a text at 1:00 this afternoon apologizing for not answering sooner.

I had a horrible and slow morning, but I did finally drag myself to school, thinking that even if I only write and work for two hours that's two more hours of work than I would do at home. You are here. You are talking with other chicks from your department. I don't interrupt, but you must have known I was here. I try to glance up less than I did last week. I still don't think it's in my power to go up to you--I already feel like I've done enough chasing you this week. I'm not sure why my presence couldn't have been acknowledged in some way, even if it was a text message. And now it looks like you left again and this time you didn't stop over to say hi.

And I don't understand any of this.

In related news, this is officially the Summer of the Fake Boyfriend.