i hate that feeling of waking up next to someone. the Sunday after Saturday night. I hate how it feels like the magic is still there and it’s still alive, and you have one last really cool conversation, but then you leave because you have to leave but all you can think about is him, and he doesn’t call. Doesn’t text.
And you’re left to wonder if maybe the connection that seemed so magical to you, even really existed.
But you remember the touches, the looks, the longing glances. You remember his desperate attempts to get your attention and you remember the words he used and the way he spoke and how it made you giggle because his accent was adorable, especially coupled with those cheeks of his.
How at 21, he still looks so much like a baby, even if he is a year older than you.
And you remember and you wonder what if because you finally met someone whose weirdness matched yours, but maybe your chemistry was wrong or your timing, because he’s leaving, leaving, gone and you’ll probably never see him again because Asia was your only common ground, really, and he’ll never swim to your side of the pond, nor you his.
Because your arms are weak and your heart is stiff, but you hug his warmth to you like a blanket immersed in what-ifs and i-wishes. You cradle his compliments to your breast the way his arms cradled yours just this morning, and you realize the more important facts about your heartache:
Life continues. Love continues. People continue.
But still, his words linger, and you recall the tender pillow-talk moment when he taught you to curl your tongue to speak Dutch, how he got excited about cheese from back home and how amazing it is and how you have to try it. And you recall how in the morning he looked at you with this not-quite sadness, a fondness that you share at this maybe-could’ve-been, had you met sooner.