I met him just five minutes ago.
He was standing right there, in front of the black Starbucks display shelf, and before the bamboo palm pot on the left. He was standing right there, with the same grande-sized iced americano in his right hand, and the key car in his left. He was standing right there and he was all still the same; he stared with the same piercing gaze; smiled with the same gentle smile, and styled with the same black plaid tee and old blue Levi’s jeans.
Meeting him has never been a part of my plan, yet I know, leaving him again would never heal my pain. So, there I planted my foot and watched him draw closer from where he stood.
I could still remember the scent of his Penhaligon Sartorial — the scent that will instantly take you to an amazing garden filled with fall foliage and as the sky slowly turned to darker shades of blue, you will feel content and warm inside with a glass of champagne in your hand. And turned out it was still the same; his powdery scent was still there.
I could still remember how his chapped lips pressed against my plain cheeks that made goosebumps explode across my skin every time he did it. And turned out it was still the same; his cracked chapped lips were still there.
And the last thing I could still remember clearly — though I always wanted to destroy it out my mind deathly — is the night when I dropped his hand while dancing, left the guest wondering, and ran away in my mother’s dress while he was down on his knees, asking me, “Will you marry me, please?”
And turned out it was still the same; turned out I was still in agony; turned out I was still in a heavy misery.
Because when I said no; it was not only yours but my ending also.
One for the money, two for the show.
I never was ready, so I watched you go.
But, there is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story. It’s just the last page of the book. It’s just the beginning in disguise.
That was when I caught my first glimpse of him. In the swarm of people, he was sandwiched in between two guys that were laughing at who knows what. It seemed like I was lost in his eyes, like he was using them to do the most calculated math problem, and that math problem was me.
That was just how everything started (again).
You know, it is a continuous struggle to connect with someone. To be heard, to be understood, to be loved, to be accepted. But then, it is done with a glimpse of hope, that he, who came from those known and unknown faces, will hear me out. He, with a warm and genuine smile, will touch my heart. He, with open arms, will accept me for who I am and who I was. He, despite all my flaws and lacks, will ask me to stay.
(I thought) he is the one.
“Babe, what took you so long?” Then, here he is, standing right next to me in that cream wool knit sweater, smiling at me while entwining his fingers with mine, slowly. Even though my brain was a mess, the only thing that kept my soul whole was the warmth of the hands holding mine on both sides, and nothing in this world could compare to the comfort of having someone just holding your hand. Right?
Well, it’s supposed to be a yes.
It was supposed to be right, until my eyes got trapped in that piercing gaze again; until I, unconsciously, loosened up my grip on his hand.
That’s how I know that it’s not right. That it’s not supposed to be him. That it’s actually, still him.
***
Stay, I wanted to say. But then, I just chose to leave straight away.
One for the money, two for the show.
I never was ready, so I watched you go.
