The first time I saw you, you were standing alone in the school’s courtyard, in front of that silly library towering like a big mansion. In the aftermath of the earthquake, we told each other that we would never run. But ere long you called me for help when your homeroom teacher kicked you out of the dorm, and I can sense the shivering in your voice even I cannot quite hear it in our chat screen. Amongst thousands of people running around, I cannot believe how I found you that night, wandering around with that little blanket folded in your arms. I could never forget those eyes when I met them.
The next time I went to find you, you were already with him for a few months, yet you came down to greet me anyway. I did not remember talking much to you, only my confession that how much I wanted to be with you, and that you would be better off without that douchebag desk mate of mine, boyfriend of yours. You of course turned me down, though with more sadness than resolution. I watched you slowly retreat, wondering what might have been going through your mind that moment. The world fell silent as I closed my eyes.
The last time you let me take you home on a warm early summer night. That day you were glamorous and excited, cheeks glowing underneath, flushed and moistened in the hot air. We walked for miles, talked on and on about your school, family, friends, and the conversation seems never ending. When we finally got back to your place, you were agitated to invite me upstairs for a drink, but only blushed that you could not think of anything but water. I smiled, with all the fansies of what to expect next, bade you good night. Never again did I find the beat that my heart skipped.
Of the many years I spent with you, you, and you, I still cannot understand who, or what exactly drives that impulse of yours. Is it spontaneity? Confidence? Or simply meeting the eyes? And then why would you be fond of me one day, torture me another, and flirt with someone else so artlessly all the time? How, with all your immaturities, plays, highs and lows, should I compose myself when I am with you, while god knows who you are with?
But that is okay. Rather than keep embarrassing myself, I ought to accept that I simply do not know. After all, there is elegance in acknowledging not knowing, and that at times even I am you.
Except the one thing I have always known for sure: that eventually you will all leave me.
Till then my heart will not stop.