It was a few months after I’d realized I was in love with him. We were sitting in the gardens on a midsummer night, a large table set in the middle of the wondrous landscape in the cheer and bustle, amidst the grandeur of the moonlit orchid illuminated by a hundred candles, or so it felt. Our families had known each other forever, so we had the chance of growing up together. I knew everything there was to know about him, his education, his interests, his general outlook on life. I still had no idea who he was though, what colour his soul was, beneath all this lustre and magnificence. I believed his soul to be as beautiful as he was, kind, gentle, gallant and true, but knew absolutely nothing about his aspirations and inspirations, his fears and his frolics. I didn’t know what kind of music really touched his heart, what movies he could watch endlessly on a loop, if he read fiction or just pretended to or if someone had ever broken his heart. These tiny details were missing in our acquaintanceship, which I knew couldn’t possibly be filled in the course of a single evening, though I was determined not to be hesitant to try.
I kept staring at his face as he sat across me, trying to imbibe every line, every scar, every crevice of his face into his picture that was etched in my mind. I wanted to remember everything about these rare moments I was with him, the way the air smelt, the music playing in the background, the way his face shone in the light, the weather, the sky, everything. I knew this was one of those experiences in my life I would bookmark and go back to a million times, go over everything I said, everything he said. I knew I would be thinking about this moment and laugh at every sarcastic comment he made, think about every word that escaped his mouth and go over every detail I could notice, the crinkles near his eyes when he smiled, that eye roll whenever I tried to come up with a sly retort to his taunts, how he was organised enough to carry his cards in a wallet, the affection in his eyes whenever he looked at everybody but me.
But that was the only thing about him that made my heart ache. His eyes. His deep brown mesmerizing enchanting eyes. They didn’t have a speck of affection when they looked at me, which they rarely did, only when everybody else had their eyes on me anyway.
He didn’t have the same feelings that I did. They didn’t linger on me or bore into mine. He looked at me as he would at any inanimate object. No, he didn’t have any feelings for me, I was sure of that now. I began looking around, feeling really low. It was all a waste, the way I felt about him, the way my heart would almost stop and then start beating wildly when I was near him, how I couldn’t stop smiling or take my eyes off him. Such a waste of emotions. I began feeling like a fool, but I pushed away those thoughts as quickly as they had appeared. I’d have time to think about that later. Right now, I had to grab on to every moment I was there with him. These moments would never come back, no matter how much I cry and pray for them to.
Goodbye wasn’t as hard as I’d expected it to be. He cracked a few sarcastic jokes and even mocked me when I tried to tell him how pretty I thought the stars were. It didn’t offend me. It just confirmed that he didn’t feel the way I felt about him. That is what caused the piercing ache in my chest. His words didn’t matter. They did, but not to the way I felt. It were those little things that confirmed my emotions were one sided.
I walked up to him and said goodbye. I don’t remember the look on his face or who was watching us or anything else. The only thing I do remember is the electricity that ran through me when he held my hand and pulled me into his arms. It lasted just a few seconds, but I’m sure the clocks weren’t moving at the same speed as they usually do. It was a moment suspended in time and air, when I forgot anything else existed, except me and him. Maybe it was a friendly gesture, I couldn’t recall our manner of parting during the times I didn’t feel about him the way I did now. Maybe, it meant nothing to him, as I didn’t either. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
The story above is a fictional narrative with no relation whatsoever to anybody living or dead. To put it simply, I made it up. That’s what storytellers do. The characters I create aren’t me, but are a part of me.