"I Like You the Best"
unconditional love doesn't have to exist as a constant bestowed by someone special
The picnic happened on a very sunny day at Golden Gate Park, one of those days that bathed the entire neighborhood in a deceptively warm and golden glow, coaxing you yet again into completely forgiving the fickle mood swings typical of the San Francisco weather.
Around me, people popped up like alerts on a phone screen, magnetically sorting themselves into circles of varied levels of relevancy to the Silicon Valley book of ambitious scheming: moving to New York, starting an AI company, scouting for a VC, writing Substack essays, exploring polyamorous romance, pondering about AI and philosophy, going on a wellness retreat, yada yada.
Amidst the buzz, there I was sprawled on my mat, soaking up the sun like a lizard on a rock. Overwhelmed—or more accurately, tired from another iteration of the merry-go-round of delivering my life story ™️ to an ever-changing cast of characters who flaunt conversational skills like well-trained athletes for an olympic sport called authentic relating—I retreated to my phone, diving into a bookmarked essay as if it were a life raft.
Just then, she appeared.
She sat across from me and helped herself to some snacks. Without a word, our eyes met briefly, like two dogs sniffing and acknowledging each other. Neither of us said a single word, as if we were both too seasoned in park social etiquette to bother with the unnecessary formalities of human greeting. In that moment, there was perhaps a mutual appreciation for the unspoken consensus to coexist distantly.
In the next hour or so, I overheard her weave in and out of conversations nearby like a humming bird sampling a meadow. I couldn’t help but notice how every laugh sent her brown curls into subtle oscillations, like a thicket of ferns caught in a breeze. Her appearance was deceivingly delicate, for when she spoke, her voice was a husky echo tinged with a sense of cool, tomboyish nonchalance.
We existed separately together, until when I flipped over to stretch my neck. She seemed to find herself in a lull, too. She turned towards me. Our eyes locked.
She said gently and casually, “By the way, I think I like you the best.”
It was said with the ease and simplicity of someone commenting on today’s weather—an observation made in passing that didn’t seem to even necessitate a response.
Throughout my life, I’ve received all kinds of attention and affirmations from people. They have rewarded my grades, praised my sense of style and complimented the originality of my creativity. They’ve appreciated how I smooth over others’ rough emotional edges, noted my attempt to align my actions to a moral compass and encouraged my acts of service. They’ve laughed at my jokes and jolly, enjoyed my body, and even gotten a kick out of my odd collection of hobbies. And I’ve always tried my best to live up to these expectations. Like a clay donkey tethered to a potter's wheel, I mold the contours of my being amidst the push-and-pull between the insistent touch of others' hands and the guiding force of my own spinning will.
But there she was, a stranger who I shared nothing but an hour of my silent presence with, telling me in our fleeting exchange of a glance and a gesture before disappearing into the crowd, that she likes me just as I am.
You don’t have to do or be anything special, you don’t have to feel successful, look gorgeous, sound funny or show up selflessly. Of all these people, I like you the best.
You just need to be yourself and I like you the best.
May 3rd, 2024
