Falling Out of Love

Photo by Drew Hays on Unsplash

I remember the first time I saw him. I was fifteen. He was dancing, teaching the steps, and his every move was poetry in motion. 

I wanted to impress him, wanted to show him I could dance too. And even though the steps were simple and repetitive, it was soon clear to everyone that I was a great dancer. 

I wanted to spend every moment staring at him, drinking in his absolutely perfect features. He was so handsome, like the princes you dream about when watching Disney movies, but never actually meet in real life. 

He was charming, he was friendly, he popped his collars and wore wraparound shades. There was just one problem - he was nine years older. I've often said that the only older guy worth dating is the one that isn't interested in you. And he was one of those guys. And much happened in those months that we spent together that convinced me that he might actually like me the way I liked him. 

He always made it a point to speak to me. Once, tiring of my endless obsession, I tried to avoid him. He sought me out, his hands clapping around my shoulders as he got my attention. In that moment, I couldn't have stopped myself from smiling at him if I wanted to. 

I wasn't the only fifteen year old there who was in love with him. In fact, even the eleven year olds were in love with him. But I sometimes felt that I was the only one he sought out that way, the only one who could hurt him by not speaking to him. 

I followed him from church a couple of times, silent and invisible in my hoodie. I just wanted to know more, to find out more. He had a girlfriend, I found. She was beautiful. He married her. They have two kids. 

He was the first guy I ever forced myself to get over. I was so happy, thinking I'd succeeded. In a way, I had. But even today, thinking about him brings a smile to my face. I still pull up his Facebook page maybe once a year. I don't let myself remember the details of his life, but it's no use. Some things still remain. I know, for instance, that his first daughter's name starts with Z.

There's still a part of me that is in love with him. 

If I had my way, I'd want to act on those feelings. See them blossom into a beautiful relationship. But I'm not fifteen years old anymore. I'm now as old as he was when I first met him. And in the last nine years, the relationships I've seen are as far as possible from the beautiful romance I pictured with him. The men and women I've met have been distant, cold, emotionally unavailable, physically, or emotionally abusive. 

Just so much darkness and ugliness. In the midst of all that, I wonder how people can be going about getting married. That man I met so many years ago seems to have the perfect, fairytale marriage, but most others - the ones I do know about - are just... ordinary. Dull. Shameful, even. All stained with tears and secrets. (Or religion).

And so were my dreams dashed to pieces. And so did romance die, replaced by the ugliness of corporates and capitalism. By patriarchy and misogyny. By greed and superficiality and abuse. And all I can see now before my eyes is a never-ending chain of people I must get over.