They say every summer has a story. Mine started earlier than expected. And ended sooner than I wanted it to be.
I loved how the circumstances had led us to where we are right now. We played fire despite knowing how it would burn us if we don’t get our shit together. How we gamble with time as we end our days watching lovely sunsets sealed with a romantic kiss. We savoured those moments holding each other’s hands and wrapped our bodies with each other as we escaped the despair that we are both trying to forget. Everything was perfect.
Except that we are not in a relationship.
For you are shackled with your emotions. I am binded by my choice. And as far as we wanted to push this through, we know we cannot. So we’ve waited for each other hoping that one of us would eventually choose to break towards freedom to be together. So we enjoy days and collect memories as we did. It was a good plan.
Except that none of us breakfree.
So we play this push and pull of emotions. To know who would fall deeper to make the first move. And the competitive nature within us created a vortex that pulled us both deeper into the darkness, uncertainty and realization that if we continue, we would end up getting hurt. We knew that it was time to let go.
Except that we never did.
We may not have violated each other’s body, but we’ve been fucking each other’s feelings ever since. And it felt good. Better than what I usually did with my fuckbuddies but more painful than my failed romances. And I have let this summer fling consumed me, contaminated me and disrupted my senses on how I see things. Of what is right and what felt good. And as we slowly drifting apart, I am starting to remember what we had that was almost like summer.
Warm, blinding, sweaty and wasn’t really meant to last.