I was Nineteen (and Cheesy)

If I could muster the energy to be angry or bitter, I could probably share this story a lot better.

I want to bitch about you to the world. I really do. But I can no longer find that sort of dramatic emotion in me, just like how you no longer recall how our relationship came to an end.

When you decided that you loved me, your affection was an all-consuming. Unstoppable. Yadda yadda.

And I loved you. I loved you, I loved you, I loved you. It didn’t matter what you did to me. I was completely o-k-a-y, because I loved you. (And to be honest, till this day, I’m still uncertain if I can love another the way I loved you.)

But of course, once you realized that I was a real person – that I wasn’t one-dimensional, and that I had problems too – you changed your mind, and promptly fell in love with another.

You also conveniently pushed the second half of the year we spent together out of your memory. Fuckin’ ace.

For the next couple of years, I felt like zombie who was simply going through the motions of life. I wasn’t sure if I could ever become an individual person ever again.

I’d hear about you from time to time, and my heart would plunge each time I heard your name.

Long story short, dear reader, here’s the good news: Regardless of how pathetic and miserable you feel after a break-up, you’ll get over it. Maybe it’ll take days, or months, or even years, but eventually, there’ll no fucks left to give, and you’ll be okay.

Hurray.

Gone Offline

The funny thing about my dalliance with J is that I am fairly sure that I never appeared on his radar, not even as a blip, as a lover. Acquaintance, yes. Friend, perhaps. But he dropped enough crumbs to lead me on and I willingly followed on the path to sucker-dom. A simple text would send me into a tizzy, spinning and flailing as I sunk deeper into the quagmire of being in love with the idea of being loved. A request to meet was practically a proposal to elope. I would hang on to his every word, vacillating wildly between fits of smitten infatuation to piqued rage.

But the flames of one’s unrequited affection, so desperate, urgent and passionate, can often sear a newly developed friendship. Even though he seemed interested initially, J soon tired of my petulant antics and decided to let our friendship, the one I clung onto so pathetically as a romance, go slowly into the night. Ashes to ashes. As how we had once brushed past each other as two strangers in the cybersphere, so we would be once more. The vestiges of proof of our acquaintance are pitifully insignificant– a fuzzy, vague connection on Facebook, phone numbers left undeleted out of sheer negligence.

Even though J and I ultimately ended in failure, whenever I chance upon him signed on to those instant messaging networks which once played host to our deeply heartfelt and personal exchanges, I recall with bittersweet fondness the time I almost tasted love, and take heart.