i used to write about every person i’ve ever fancied and filled diaries about them in your name. the reason i never filled one with “that one person” is simply this: there’s never been one. not truly. for a moment, yes, maybe. i mean, most definitely. but i was always left, or i left them, or we left each other.
i always wondered why i could never be the leading role in my own diaries and as i grew, i sat patiently with a coffee and writing romantic stories i would dream about, waiting for you to be as kind to me as i was patient for you.
sometimes i cussed you out screaming into my pillow at night, believing what i thought was a lesson from you, “i’m not worthy of you”, when all you tried to teach me was that someone was coming and i just had to take the dare and take the leap.
the real thing wasn’t the time i thought i was in love, or the time i was and the other person stopped along the way, or that time the person was a dream but the timing was unfortunate, or the time they were unfaithful to me.
the real thing, i say?
i think i’ve found it that one august afternoon one year ago. he found me, or i found him, it doesn’t matter in the end because in a way we found each other and love is not wanting to let go and hopefully not needing to.
i knew you existed in a lot of different ways, like when i saw you in their eyes looking at each other, and when my mother looks at me. i feel you in the way we communicate and when i put a mask on my face after a bath.
but this one specific way of yours drove me crazy since day one and as much as it scared me, i liked it, i wanted it, i want it to this day and more.
you happen when you want to and i thank you that you happened with him.