My very own Pandora’s box

He did not hold my hand once. Sure, we must have hugged once or twice; he did walk me -halfway- home… We compared hand sizes sitting alone on a bench during one of the town’s festivals. That same night he announced he had not fallen in love once, but fell in love every day. Sure, we stayed in awkward silence for long periods of time, neither of us brave enough to be the first to risk the friendship and head for a kiss. Yet here I found myself, drawn to him in ways that shouldn’t be possible, feelings too big to dismiss as a silly crush, having found someone that felt so close to what I once called home.

You may think ours was some sort of spring love, that dies once summer ends and the fairy tale crumbles. Perhaps because this was never a fairy tale to begin with, better portrayed as the toxic behavior developed between two people with a substance abuse problem and way too many things in common. Actually, I may be lying, as looking back, we did meet during spring. But it wasn’t until New Year’s Eve that I realized there was something in the way he spoke, how he understood life —how he understood me—, that called me to the depths of hell, or rather, our text chat.

The illusion never died, years later I still find myself reviewing that idealized version of him that I invented to replace his hurtful demeanor, his unwillingness to treat me with respect and honesty, how he kept me around giving me enough crumbs so as to not let me die of how starved I was to feel loved and appreciated.

To this day I still wonder where he may be, dead and buried? Alive and well? Finding myself turning corners around town and expecting to encounter him there, by grace of the gods; wishing for our paths to cross once again, not really sure what for. So that I can be sent on a whirlwind path of mental disorder and people-pleasing tendencies, that I know as well as the back of my hand? That is a given.

Nothing with him came naturally.

I remember the shock in his words when I finally realized he was never going to love me back, at least not in the way I needed… wanted him to. As I told him I’d have to delete his phone number, because that would be the only thing preventing me from contacting him again. His delusional: “Oh c’mon, you don’t need to do that”. Like that was some sort of extreme measure, after being left hanging for a big chunk of my life, after being turned down for what became my last confession of never-ending love. His last chance before I completely gave up on what we could have been.

Now I realize he may not have been thinking of me at all, instead considering how his life would be without my constant attention, love and devotion. Because that is what it felt like at the end of it all. At some point throughout the years, he became not only my object of affection but my sole reason for existing.

My list of fears regarding him grows longer as I age. Wondering when will I finally forget his birthday, his taste in music and how he played, his favorite movie and the last game we talked about, his tattoos, his middle name, the ease with which he made me laugh —not many have come even close—, all the memories that I stored in a mental box with a big sticker featuring his name and an even bigger warning sign to “do not open”. My very own Pandora’s box.

Still have the silly selfies he’d send me, though I don’t look at them.

Still write him poems from time to time, just to purge my heart a bit, knowing he’ll never read them, not even if I sent them to him.

Still check his socials, creepy as it may be —I’m only human—. Though that one, I hope he does not ever find out about.

Still remember that time he opened his car’s sunroof so that I could recreate the most cliché scene in every romantic or coming-of-age movie ever made. Thinking perhaps we could be the main characters of our lives, if only for a few moments. How later on we listened to music and I tried to impress him singing by heart the lyrics to that one musical I could never part ways with. How I loved the solitude of it all, us sitting at our friend’s patio after all had gone to sleep, him keeping me company until I had to get the bus. The many thoughts that crossed my head about that night and what might have been if only I’d been a little bolder. Something about him always shook me to my core.

Still remember how he’d only share with me, on those nights the whole group would go out, staying up until the sun was high in the sky, chatting alone in the balcony of one of our friends’ place. A little close, so that I felt warmth radiating from his body, through his arm next to mine, without ever touching.

As addicts, I guess it was never easy.

As two very troubled, depressed and insomniac individuals, it was never bound to end well. Hell, it didn’t even start well.

I now know there are some fates you can’t escape, you can only live through them and hope to be let out with a warning, though the closest I got to that was getting my soul ripped to pieces, chunks of myself big enough that I could dream, as I picked them up and rebuilt myself, of one day being brave enough to love with such passion. My love for him may never die… I know my love for many others has persisted through time, and none came even close to him. I’m willing to carry it with me along for this wild ride that is life. In a way, we’re not so different, he may fall in love every day and I sure as hell will love him every day until I draw my last breath.