They say in your lifetime you’ll fall in love approximately twice.
The first time is when you’re sixteen, when you’re fresh outta preteen era, young and foolish. First kisses, first heartfelt hugs, first everything. It’s where you’d read into the smallest, lightest touch, overanalyzing every words and every butterflies. You don’t think straight—or just unable to, because it feels too much like a dream, almost unreal, since everything was in shades of pink and bright pastel colours and you can’t help but soar through the sky without thinking that someday your wings would eventually break and you’ll come crashing down. It’ll leave you scars, a big gaping hole in your heart, probably a handful of painful memories, but it’ll help you grow as a person with or without you realizing it.
The next time is when you’re twenty-three, when you’re still young, but far less foolish. You’d be more careful this time around, putting up walls to protect your hearts from breaking again. You’d be more aware of things you didn’t before, this time actually paying attention to the harsh truths and possible scenarios to come and your feelings at the same time. It’s where you couldn’t help but wonder that maybe, just maybe, after all the denyings and and insanity the hormones put you through, they will be the one you wake up to in the morning.
I met him when I was either thirteen or fourteen. I was still wearing my heart on my sleeve, desperately open about all these new powerful feelings. I accept it all, swallow it whole. An ‘insane magical life gift’, is what I would say to describe him.
He’s not insane, though. He’s a prince. An actual prince.
Or I thought him as a prince because I didn’t really spend that much time delving into his galaxies, as I already helplessly drunk with his smiles and all my judgments are clouded. Wasn’t something that my present self would call appropriate, but I was a fool back then.
I only note down the good parts because that’s how I want to remember him; considerate. Calm. Very kind. Keep his mind to himself. And when he smiles, he got me pink in cheeks. To this day, I don’t know why I fell really hard for him—I just did, freely, genuinely. I still have him on my mind sometimes, lately a lot more frequent than usual, along with murmurs of hello, how are you, and even mini scenarios of what would happen if we see each other in the future. Crazy, yes, to think that I don’t even remember his face that well.
The one image of him I have on my mind was a slightly taller version than the junior-high one, with your face just a little bit different than before now that he passed puberty. He still wear glasses. And braces. And hoodies. Everything else is a blur. It’s been what—five years? He can be a whole different person now. Probably got his braces off last year. Found comfort in contact lenses maybe. Maybe even got rid of those hoodies. We’re turning nineteen this year, but his fourteen years old self—with his glasses, hoodies and braces—had made himself comfortable in the back of my mind. It seems like he’s here to stay too. Crazy. Crazy. After all this time, he still has the power to make me go mad.
I never thought I would say this when I was in high school—but now I can say; I wish I have never met him. I regret meeting him, I honestly did.
At least, I regret meeting him when I was thirteen. I hate that he’s the first one I set my heart on, I hate that he’s the one who made me realize that there’s more to the world than what I know. That I need to stop putting my heart on my sleeves all the goddamn time. I really despised the fact that we met when we were very, very young.
Because if its up to me, I really don’t want him to be someone who ends up in the background of my life, a blurry face I won’t remember. Someone who will never matter, who will never end up as someone important—I don’t want that. Instead, I want him to be the one I met at twenty-three, when we’re both ready enough to welcome feelings like love, when we’re already know what’s wrong and what’s right. I want to observe his stars and learn about his nebulas, got sucked into his black holes even, I don’t even fucking mind—I want to do it all, I want to love him in the right, sane way.
And hello—if you are the one who I’m talking about, I’m pretty sure that this won’t happen and will eventually become another addition to the useless pile of wishful thinkings in the far back of my head, but I wish—I really do silently wish (although not really since I post this online) that we can meet again some time in the future. We don’t have to be lovers, no, God forbid, but I really do hope that there are times where we can sit on an unoccupied seats in the back of that particular cinema lobby, this time twenty-three years old, this time actually getting to know each other the proper way, and maybe, just maybe, we can actually be what we could’ve been.
