How are you? We haven’t talked in weeks.
The number of days we haven’t talked for are the same number of days I needed to realize you are not coming back. It took me a while. And last night I finally cried. Told myself I don’t want to love you anymore. It hurts. In a different way this time.
You grew on me.
I didn’t even like you. Told myself you were just a “hot” fuck. I thought that was about it: you were just a hot one. I told myself I was just using you, that I didn’t have any space for you in my life. Or time. You, with that enigmatic smile, the mysterious eyes I still can’t read. What is it about them? What kind of secrets are not telling?
You kissed me at the pub table, my red lipstick all over your lips. You grabbed my hand and took me with you. I didn’t have any choice but to follow you. I told myself I didn’t care, so it was fine. To hold your hand, to let you decide what was going to happen next. I let you believe you were in charge because I didn’t mind. I was fine with the idea of not seeing you again.
So what changed then? What made me turn around and stay?
It took me another week to realize it. That I actually wanted you around. That I wanted to read behind those eyes, that I needed to see that smile again.
I managed to find you. You couldn’t, or maybe wouldn’t, hide from me. I made you come back. I made it clear.
So you showed up, high, your eyes and mind somewhere else, and I believed it was love. I told you about Bowie, and you let me in. You did share some dark secrets. Secrets that happened to be exactly like mine.
How did it happen? How is it possible that two strangers could have so much in common?
Your dad didn’t stay, and I know about that feeling, that hole it creates in a child. I have it too. It’s been with me for quite a while now.
You told me everything and then left.
I was already thinking about saving you. Just like my mother did, 30 years ago.
But you didn’t want to be saved, so just like your dad, you disappeared.
I started feeling those butterflies when it was already too late anyway. You grew on me too late. You grew on me and you were already gone. My hand behind your head, holding your hair softly. I was already loving you somehow. But you were already somewhere else, not in my room anymore.
Now the smile, the eyes, the secrets will probably be revealed to someone else. Or maybe not.
Tell me, did you run back to her?
I would have made it better. I know your pain.
Because it’s mine too.