I went to the library after work today, and strangely, everything reminded me of him.
Every corner felt like a memory I hadn't asked to remember. I walked past the bookracks where I'd once seen him looking for books when I came with my friend in February, and something in me stung.
It wasn't dramatic, just a quiet ache, a soft pain that sits at the back of your throat when you try not to cry. I'll admit it hurts. The thought of spending my life without him, even if he was never really "mine", even if he was always temporary. I know it'll get better with time. I hope it will, but right now the wound is tender, and every little thing touches it.
I sat in my usual spot downstairs, and instantly it reminded me of the early days, before the awkwardness, before the tension, before we became whatever it is we became.
Back then, meeting him without a plan felt innocent and cute. I never knew whether I should approach him or pretend not to see him.
There was a day early in our talking phase where I sat first and he wasn't there. Maybe I noticed his book and sat there on purpose, or maybe it was a coincidence. I don't remember anymore. But I do remember him coming and sitting right next to me on the other side of the bookrack, wearing that dark blue sweatshirt of his. I pretended I didn't see him, because I was too shy and not sure if approaching him would be wanted.
So, instead of talking, I just left. And when I came back later, some of the books were arranged differently, slightly pulled out, shifted, as if someone wanted me to notice. I still don't know if it was him or nothing at all. Maybe I'll never know. Or maybe someday I'll blurt it out randomly like I always do.
When I came home, I started reading an autobiography my brother wrote, and he mentioned an experience he had with someone he once liked. The way he described it hit something raw inside me. It struck the same tender wound that had been aching all day. I felt like crying again.
Our conversations have always been long, none ever shorter than two and a half hours. They were always deep, intense, and the kind that stayed with me long after they ended. And if they were shorter, it felt incomplete, as if something essential had been left unsaid.