— ‘I’ve got no one to sit here with me… Don’t you want to?’ — Those words were spoken a long time ago by the person I mentioned was sitting next to me on a rainy day, and whom I see every day… which makes it… excruciating.
Moving on, I intend to finally lay things bare and put my thoughts in their proper place. A year ago I experienced some of my fondest memories (but that’s a story for another time); well, in August of that year, she arrived. Long brown hair (now short and black…), with three ‘lovely’ mannerisms, wearing clothes that gave her a somewhat ‘bucolic’ look, she had a calm tone of voice (which, when she got worked up, was… I admit, funny). On her first day, she was quiet, slightly reserved, and didn’t make many friends of the same gender (a point I’ll come back to later). On that very day, we were given a group activity to do in pairs; she was on her own, so, without a second thought, I did exactly what you’re thinking right now. (Was I going to miss the chance?). As I approached, she’d already realised what I wanted, and so she asked the question. When I replied ‘yes’, I sat down; without much effort, I managed a smile – it was actually a rather corny joke; she must have laughed out of politeness. (My friend, let me tell you now: she didn’t). But then again… who would actually laugh at a corny joke for over two whole minutes?
Once that bit of banter was over, we were chatting – and it turned out to be a good conversation, by the way. (I managed to get some hearty laughs out of her.) Of course, from that day onwards we became ‘friends’; I must say, it happened quickly. Over the course of weeks (dear, forgive me, but it’s been a long time), we grew very close; I was her favourite. Consequently, one day, she revealed the obvious – we both knew that those sweet glances and affection (caresses) meant something else entirely; but never just an innocent friendship.
A few weeks passed; our glances became filled with tenderness, the affection turned into ‘caresses’… too many (depraved ones), and so, we were already making vows of love; she’d told me everything, every detail of her childhood, even about the innocence… that had been stolen from her… even back then… (Yes, that’s what springs to mind).
Then, one day, she broke the news to me: her parents hadn’t approved – and still don’t – of ‘what we have’. I won’t go into it. She didn’t ‘fight’ or go against her mother’s decisions – ‘You know I’m weak…’ – ‘Yes, I know that.’
It was over. In November of that year. August, November. Which will be next? Ah, September.
‘Is there a right way to love a candle, when you’re a moth?’