Fleeting

2012:

Jordan, I think, was his name. I don’t really remember. (Of course it was, and of course I do, but sometimes I delude myself into thinking I never really knew him at all.)

We used to talk everyday. Oftentimes, he’d be the only reason why I would be up at 4 in the morning, half-groggy and half-itching to read his reply. We seldom made sense — I remember — as individuals, but we sure as hell made sense to each other. He’d come up with an idea I’d refute, and he’d retaliate, then I would say, “Is this it? Are we having our first fight?”

He would say, “We are, hun.”

The process would repeat over and over until we wouldn’t remember who came up with the idea first, and then we’d agree to junk it altogether. Then we’d go back to square one.

All our fights, therefore, were always the first.

It didn’t last long, of course. These whirlwind romances (if you can even call them romances) never do. One moment you’re verbally abusing each other to smithereens, and the next you’re placing feathery kisses on their noses, on their cheeks, on their closed eyelids, with quiet whispers of your loudest emotions. “I love you!”, you shout silently, your clammy hands pressing against each other to stop their shaking, your heart pounding so loudly your ears are ringing, but even you can’t hear it over the pounding of his own.

It will not last long. You would never meet his expectations, and he can never meet yours. He will blow your mind and tickle your heart; you will teach him to smell flavours and touch sounds, and you will change each other, but it will never be enough. I remember us. He asked me questions I could not answer, I gave him responses to questions he did not ask. We met at a juncture, and as we spent more time together, we learned there was only one point where we intersected: the past.

And attempting to make our paths cross again was akin to sharpening a pair of scissors — painful, and oftentimes, not worth the time spent.

It did not last long, and now all I have are snippets of conversations that remind me of what once was. I do not wonder for what else may come, because I do not want to know. Because I made a choice. And that choice was to leave.

Seeing as how he did not stop me, perhaps it was Jordan’s, too.

—

2015:

Jake, I’m sure, is his name.