ghost of you

“Are you over him?” 

Sternly, yes. The door is closed- the chapter is locked. I bolted it shut.  

But, sometimes, the human in me looks at it. 

He, perhaps, permanently altered my brain chemistry. He made me feel a certain way about myself- he did not understand me. I was as much of an enigma to him as he was to me. It was in everything at the beginning. It was in the way he showed up with a six-pack of beers when my ex finally moved out of my apartment. It was in the way we secretly held hands when our friends weren’t looking- the way he twirled my curls around his fingers and fixed them when they were unruly. It was in the way he loomed over me when I was chopping vegetables- the way his breath felt on my collarbone- the way the cadence of his voice invaded my senses. It was simply in the way he looked at me. The way he called me: "my angel.”

I question, sometimes- what I was to him. It was just the way we are as people- a perfect reflection of the cultures which raised us. He's rigid- systematic. I'm passionate- impatient. Hot one day. Cold the next. At first, he only told me that he was sick- some blood clot they couldn't determine the cause of. And, that same night, he couldn't understand it- why he couldn’t stop hugging me- why he couldn’t let me go. With his head resting on my shoulder, he whispered: "I wasn't going to tell you. I didn't want you to worry." 

Other times, we often anticipated each other. What we needed. What we wanted. That simple elbow nudge to the ribs when I was about to say something inappropriate. “Don’t say it.” / "Fix your face." We were competitive- too. It was a game- push and pull. Who got the better grades. Who could out-drink the other. Kippis vs. saħħa. It was almost always me who had to be carried home, though. Except, on this one particular night, before our birthday weekend- it was me in that alley, holding his hair back (he had the longer hair). And, I was thoroughly amused- that this descendant of Vikings could not handle his beer. 

On another night, we were dancing. As we always did. But, this time- he spun me around too hard. I twisted my ankle. He was adamant on not walking me home: he said that I should learn how to be more indepedent. He gave in- and eventually, he let me rest against him. He had this particular disposition to me- I would trigger his soft side. His hands locked into mine. Then, as he made sure I was safe inside my studio, he apologised. As always, I leaned in to kiss him. But, that night- that night, something shifted. It was in the way he was so reluctant. He didn't stay. 

Later, he told me- he was still chasing the ghost of a past love. He was still haunted by her. He came back to me- a wounded bird. I no longer had the energy to nurse him back to health and stunt his wing. I wanted nothing more than to resume our little affair, though. The truth, however, was that he abandoned me. I no longer needed him.  It was the realisation, that destroyed me- I was an option. 

I used to search for a sign in every gesture- every word. I willingly ignored the many red flags: the hurtful words he said to me when he was frustrated. It started as a whirlwind. But then, it simmered down- a slow May breeze. It broke me- and he knew it. Every inside joke after he came back from Berlin felt marred. Every lingering touch felt wrong. His gaze- desperate and morbid. After, I tried my best not to gravitate towards him. At dinners. At parties. At events. But, he never stopped looking at me from across a room. Our friends who had been blissfully unaware of everything eventually noticed: "Did something happen between you two?" 

After we went our separate ways, I stopped cooking. Or, rather- I had stopped cooking like I used to. Without him- my kitchen felt empty. I had no one to teach me new techniques- yell at me for cooking rice wrong. And, on random Wednesdays, the sporadic sweetness of what we once called routine used to creep in. I sometimes found myself standing still at the counter in my new apartment. And without realising it- I had been waiting for someone. I waited for that call or the text: “Hey, I’m parking my bike. Don’t start without me.” Though, he was in another country- as was I. Far removed from the place cradled by the Maas we temporarily existed in- together. 

I felt a pang sometimes. But, what was that- was that love? Or, were we just two lost souls who took solace in each other in the right place, at the wrong time? Yes- I believe that ours was the intensity of a thousand angry Mediterranean suns. Though, why was it so painful? Some scarred part of me often begs to recreate all of this with someone new. It begs to be fed the love that could have been- it wanted to feel at least a flame of what bustled between he and I. I miss the connection. But, I promised myself that I would not be the one watching embers ebb into the nothingness of the pitch dark sky behind them, alone. Decidedly, I do not want to be anyone's option. Nor do I want to be an object of temporary desire. I will burn myself alive before I let another man use me. 

Mm, how does that old adage go? Once bitten, twice shy. 

He called me on my 27th birthday. We spoke for two hours. And- surprisingly- he had apologised. Better late than never, I suppose? It reeked of remorse. It was sincere. I suppose I had to apologise to you, too- for being so jaded. But, the corridors you occupied inside my mind are empty now. And, seldomly, do I hear your voice behind the door. Naturally, I still wish you the best.