lâche-moi le main

“I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it — to be fed so much love I couldn’t take any more. Just once.” — Haruki Murakami

I dropped biology in sixth form. It started getting too chemistry heavy. I never quite grasped how components match with each other or what atoms do. In real life, chemistry is such a fool’s game. The concept of being “head over heels” for someone: the concept of a connection. The realist inside always knows the outcome: failure. The romanticist keeps hoping- keeps building castles in the clouds. Why is romance so easy for other people?

This morning, a friend lamented to me that her skinny love was moving towards its expiration date. And I told her: “you deserve someone who chooses you.” Meanwhile, I never fall for people who choose me wholeheartedly. People only choose me when it’s the most convenient for them. 

I don’t think I will ever understand this one. He admits the chemistry and the attraction are both there. Then, it begets the question: why can’t this be explored further? I’m already hurt. I’m already frustrated. I’m already anxious. I haven’t felt this in a while. And, maybe, because of the longevity of the absence of such a feeling, I forgot what it was like. This one, he replied: “I got caught up in the chemistry, sorry.” I must have walked for an hour across the city after this conversation. 

Where had I heard this excuse before?

I often think about your blue eyes. We were caught up in the excitement of the contrast between us. The North. The South. The coldness of your features, and the warmth in my voice. The blond. The brunette. And, it was only after many months that you realised you still had feelings for someone else; that your heart only had space for her. "What was all of this?" I had asked you. "I thought you were just being friendly- in your Mediterranean way...and, our chemistry. I'm sorry." 

Then, karmically- she broke your heart in Berlin- yet again. She led you there. Only for you to find out that she no longer had space in her heart for you. And, then- you came back to me, tail in-between your legs. I admit, it was difficult to ignore you- to continue being a player in your one-sided game of emotional chess. Against everyone's advice- I decided to forgive you. And, it was when I was walking behind you through the countryside outside the town- watching your long hair sway to your step- that the feeling of resentment crept in. I had this impulse to push you into the lavender bushes and leave you there. 

And, perhaps you don't remember- we fought on the night of our joint farewell. It was as if you were trying to pick a fight- to give me a reason to hate you permanently. You- well, it seemed that you wanted a reason to soothe your guilty conscience. Perhaps, you thought- if you triggered my inherited rage of a thousand vengeful Mediterranean suns- I'd say something untoward. And then, only then- would I have given you a reason to hate me. Yet, I had become immune to you. 

The next day, you still helped me move my suitcases to the bus stop. And, you wouldn't let go of me until the busdriver called me inside. You wouldn't leave the corner until the bus left your sight. And then, then you texted me- "I fucked up with you." By then, I was halfway to Brussels- trying to fight back the tears.

There was someone else when I was back home for the summer after: he was a thinly veiled attempt of mine to forget you- that ridiculous connection we had. That’s all it was. I tried to forget your scent- the way your fingers felt when they intertwined in mine- the way your warmth would soothe my skin when you held me. I desperately wanted to delete you; to replace you. 

Then, that same summer, I moved for work. And, in between trips, you came to see me. It was a mistake letting you share a bed with me again- us walking along the Alzette together like nothing changed. A grave- and stupid- mistake. We talked about what could have been. What should have been. And, well, I can only recall thinking that in this city, I have to let go of the notion of you and I together- that my heart needs to get re-acquainted with the absence of you. I decided, there, in Ville Haute- as I watched you poke at a radish in your salad- that you will not occupy my heart or my mind here. You will not exist here. 

I will never tell you how much I actually missed you sometimes.

And well- it's yet another summer without you. You moved on. Or so they've told me. Good for you. I'm in another cycle. I’m back to where I was last year: wrapped up in yet another chemistry with no prospects. I’m in a different country, again, repeating the same pattern of self-destructive behaviour. Sometimes, I want to replace my skin; I want to forget what the touch of their hands felt like on my body. Yours, especially. 

After my walk, a mutual friend of ours called. It was almost serendipitous. I asked him, “am I being stupid this time around?” And well, he said: “if you already have a premonition that it is going to be a repeat of what you went through last year, then perhaps.” I promised him that I will detach, this time.