Nice guys finish last, why did I expect anything else? All the compliments and gifts have gone to waste; all the hours I spent texting, losing sleep to talk to her; I was the perfect gentleman, but nice guys finish last.
Chivalry is dead, no matter what all those old people say! Every door I held open, every chair I pulled out for her, all amounted to nothing once that jock pulled up in front of her as I rounded the corner with my flowers.
Her jaw dropped as he asked her to homecoming, barely having talked to her and having put no effort into his proposal. I was forced to turn away, roses in hand, crumpling my poster in another as I shuffled away defeated.
Nice guys finish last, no one cares that I went the extra mile. In the end he was more attractive, he had the nicer car, and I was a lover boy lost in the background.
She had to have known I was dying to ask her out, the writing was on the walls, but maybe that’s why she’s going with someone else. She’d rather die than be caught at homecoming with me, no matter how close we were to each other.
Nice guys finish last, why can’t I be like him? I’d been raised to act as polite as possible, but with her that got me nowhere. Why do guys like him always win in the end? Why do nice guys finish last?
Maybe it’s about perspective, I thought as I walked away from the crumpled poster in the trash. I lied to myself and said she’s not meant for me, as though I wasn’t hating myself for not asking her sooner.
Why had I devoted myself so undyingly to be around her when that meant nothing to her? My dreams were shattered as these questions splintered into regret.
Maybe my approach had been a waste of my time; maybe it was torture for her. I’d liked her so badly that I tried to spend as much time around her as I could but maybe she dreaded every second I lingered in her presence.
Nice guys finish last, they’re like sleepwalkers, blindly wandering towards a vision that will never be true.
Resentment and jealousy filled my heart as I entered the class I shared with her, but I was shocked to see her seat was empty. On her desk sat a little pink sticky note addressed to me, folded God knows how many times. Such a simple note, yet such overwhelming emotions flowed over me.
Three short words repaired the shattered dreams I’d given up on that morning, written in perfect cursive, “Hoco with me?” Maybe nice guys don’t finish last.
