This was the first meal I had in the past two days. It felt good but a little alien, as if my stomach was prepared to starve and was taken by surprise. I have always wondered what depression felt like. I think I maybe know now how it tastes. I’m running my hands through the knotted strands of my hair and wondering when I combed them last. I am thinking about her, ever so often now, forgetting that I was the one who said we needed a break. We, humans, do the stupidest of things. Oh, I don’t mean to hide my guilt through this generalisation about us all, it’s just that I understand that we all do it. We all make mistakes that we are too proud to own up to. I did, I mean, I do. She told me such beautiful things about myself that rang true only after the initial denial of modesty. I barely doubted myself then. Look at me now, hiding and running away from everything that is important to me. I don’t understand what I am doing. I haven’t spoken to her in a long time – a month. Her sweet sweet voice that was constantly asking me where I was and what I was doing. The thought of her makes me blush because I can’t even begin to understand how we came to be in the first place. If someone asks us for our so-called ‘Love Story’, I think I would just giggle incessantly because I wouldn’t know what to say. That is because our story doesn’t really have a beginning. It just was, it just is.
But really, what am I doing? I feel so restless and incomplete. I feel like I’m just playing with her, playing with myself. I thought I understood what ‘forever’ meant when I said it. I thought I understood that ‘forever’ ends. But I also knew that it can last forever, last for as long as we want it to. I thought I knew. We thought to have conversations about the end, conversations that were painful, was going to make things easier. If only we knew. Love hurts no matter how much you prepare yourself for it. I feel like kicking my selfish self off this completely. I mean, even as I write this I know that wherever there is a ‘we’ in this paragraph, I actually mean ‘me’. Because I don’t even really know how she is feeling. Is she hurting? Is she happy? I just know this much, and that is: she truly loved me and that she knows better. FUCK! I always let my impulsive emotions set the course for the way I behave. I want to look into the mirror and screech curses at my reflection. BITCH! I am sobbing now. You can’t see the tears. It’s not running through my cheeks, it’s running through my dry and angry throat. It’s running through my lungs, through my guts. It’s just running. Like a drunk and lost soul I sent her an email that night. Craving her; that’s what it really meant. Fuck. What am I doing? Do I really mean anything I say? Am I a liar? I feel like I don’t even know myself sometimes. Who is this person who pretends to not feel but feels, who pretends to be indifferent but hurts so much? Who is she? What does she want?
Then again you can’t blame me, she was my first real love. My first real touch, my first real kiss, my first real everything. Everything.. And she was so kind, so smart and caring. How can I ever forget her? Does this separation mean I have to forget her? Does it? I hope not. It was all too sweet. I think she knew, I knew too that it would be me who would make a run for it. It was me. We were right. I look out the window and try to think of all the other things that I need to do. I need to go back to bed because I am exhausted. I stayed up till 8 in the morning today. It has been a long day. I remind myself that I am at college. That there’s so much to do. I have so many submissions coming up. Ammu, my sister, is coming home this weekend, though I don’t think I will see her because I am going to the pride parade on Sunday. Yes, I am excited for that. I am excited for how my summer plans of studying abroad will turn out to be.
I have been so shy and low-key here at college, it’s not all that surprising actually. I knew I wasn’t made to be that perfect girl. It’s true that my confidence in myself is at a very low right now. I know. Why do I feel like I’m that lover who emotionally abuses her partner and fucks with everyone’s minds? I think that is me. That kind. But I wish she knows I’m hurting too, even though I know that I am the one who really messed it all up. I’m playing with my head too. I am. I take my laptop and go to the mess. It’s empty and quiet here. I open it and begin to puke out these poems that I see around me. I write about depression, about cutting, about mothers who are drug addicts, about everything except her. Even words don’t work anymore. And then I think of how I might see her this December and immediately feel queasy. I can’t do this. I think I’ll make a fool of myself. I can imagine her walking into my house all calm and happy to see my family and I am going to stand there wondering if I stink of guilt and if that stench is too obvious. And then I’ll wonder if I’ll get any time alone so I can just kiss her for one last time though I have no idea if we are really together anymore or if it’s right or wrong. I really don’t know what to do.
Is distance that has done this to us? I can’t believe so. I think it’s my impatience and frustration that has done this to us. I hope we will still be friends. I hope we will still remember our time together with utter fondness. I hope.