I’m not the girl you end up in a relationship with. You won’t fall for me, and I definitely won’t fall for you. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure of it.
I’m not the girl you end up in a relationship with, simply because I don’t have the time for you. I work my ass off, and on most days, the only ones I have actual conversations with are my quote-wall or my non-existent cat, while simultaneously texting three people. I have learnt to live and be comfortable in my own company to the extent that it will make you uncomfortable. And most of all, there’s no way you wouldn’t be a part of my work life in one way or another. The lines between my personal and professional lives are blurry, because you never know what might end up as something I’d classify as “work-important”.
My life is my work. I don’t know what forty-hour weeks are; I don’t understand the concept of sleep very much, and the only time I’d be able to give you, is twenty four minutes on a long, stretched voice note at 4.56am. This won’t be your ideal relationship- the one where you don’t have to do a lot, because I will still demand your time. Sometimes, in the middle of your office meeting, when I’m having a nervous breakdown over a project in broad daylight; or at ten pm, refusing to wait for you to finish dinner with your family as my body swallows itself in a panic attack- sometimes, I will demand your attention, even though I can’t ever give you mine.
I will warn you about my schedules, but if you still want it, I will tell you about my days every night, every single one of them. How, some days, I fall in love with conversations I have with people I bump into on the metro. Those are the good days. I smear my eyes with kohl and pretend like I have it together. Sometimes, I actually do. Other days, I snapchat my way through the day, making my story 230 seconds long, hoping nobody sees through me. I will make you tired of listening to my days every night, every single one of them.
I will not let you make the effort. I will pick up the bill on the rare days that we go out for dinner, it is the only way I know how to apologize. I will tell you I don’t like flowers or chocolates, or that I don’t really believe in having favorites, even though I really, really wouldn’t mind if you sang Alt J or Adele, right about now.
I will spare 39 minutes in a day, once a week, and since you can’t possibly do anything else as I knock at your door, we’ll just end up having sex. And like an alarm clock, I’ll realize time is slipping through my hands and I’ll rush through it, but make no mistake- it will be the best sex you ever have. I will prefer it over you. It is the only way I know of being intimate without really being intimate. On the days that you suggest we talk about our feelings for 39 minutes instead, I’ll fumble and bring “open relationship” to the table, so you’ll know, you can’t ever really be in a ‘real’ relationship with me.
I’m not the girl you end up in a relationship with. I’m the girl who helps you with your project, I’m the girl you fuck, I’m the girl you learn to hate. I’m never the girl you end up falling in love with.