I’ve been looking for an excuse to tell you what I’ve been meaning to tell you and ask you all the questions I’ve been meaning to ask. But tonight I sipped my wine while staring at the wall and decided not to tell you anything, because it’s 2am where I am and 4am where you are. It’s been almost two years since you last cared about me. You have a girlfriend. You were seeing her while you were telling me how special I was to you and how you never wanted to lose me. You asked me if I believed in true love. You told me I lit up your day. And then you stopped telling me anything.
Why though? Why would you say all this if you never wanted me? Why would you make me feel like you could maybe love me and then make me watch while you loved her instead? Why did I have to watch you smile at her, and touch her and kiss her? And why did you introduce me to your friends if you never intended for me to be part of your life? Why did you chase after my car yelling out my name as I passed by you if you were not interested in pursuing me? What was I for you? A pass-time? A joke? Just a friend? Was it all in my head?
I wanted to tell you that you that the brown of your eyes was warmer and brighter than the sun, I wanted to tell you that when you smiled at me, my insides melted and my knees weakened. I wanted to tell you that I wanted to be where you were, all day every day. I wanted to tell you that when you stopped texting me, I cried like a little child being deprived of its favourite toy. No, not because I liked playing with you, but because all I ever did was love you unconditionally and I wasn’t ready to be parted from you. Because you filled me with happiness I wasn’t ready to let go of. Because you made me feel whole, like everything was simple, like everything was big brushstrokes of colour mixing gracefully on a canvas the way they were supposed to be.
I always linked you to Renoir. You were vibrant and bold but also delicate. You captivated the light and the positivism of the world without bothering much with the details. And after all this, the only painting I can still link you to is the seascape, I still cannot decide if I am angry or sad. Every time I think about you, a mixture of feelings splashes onto the walls of my heart in a clumsy and disorderly manner. But there is a romantic note somewhere in there. Something that turns everything into nostalgia and melancholy. I miss you.
Two years ago, I wished you happy birthday and you told me that my wish meant the world to you and that you couldn’t wait to see me. Last year I wished you happy birthday and you responded a week later, politely thanking me. I asked you how you were and you never replied. Was it so bad that I still cared about you? You haven’t wished me a happy birthday since you started seeing her. You think I hadn’t noticed? For the past two years I get my hopes up at 23:59 pm of the previous day only to be let down 48 hours later. Don’t worry. I got the message loud and clear. You don’t want to talk to me and there’s nothing wrong with that apart from the fact that I still don’t know why.
So here we are. From you kneeling in front of me with a flower in your hand, to making perfunctory small talk when we unavoidably run into each other. From you seeing me on a night out and telling me that I shine like a diamond, to pretending like you don’t notice me in the coffee house. All I am left with is the impression of who I thought you were and what I thought we could be painted on the right side of my brain with vibrant colours.
Written by EZ