I savoured every minute with him, letting trains pass for a precious few more seconds with each other, my heart would sink every time another train rolled up and tears would be commissioned by the lump in my throat but only when he’d left.
You see for him things were different. Things were as they seemed, for it was nothing more for him than a transaction, a pit stop to check-in with the girlfriend every once in a while. He was always fine afterwards.
I extrapolated tiny droplet-words he said to become the ocean to sail on, i’d write them down, quickly, so I wouldn’t forget. Sometimes i’d get so agitated that I might forget something that i’d spend the entire train journey home creating a transcript of conversation, little touches; small things. But now, I recall that I never recorded the bad things, which is why a memory as hopeless as mine only has remembrances of what’s recorded in these scrawny transcripts. I have excited diary entries, outfit plans, kiss records- all of which ache in a tight knot in my throat like a rock I can’t swallow.
You, on the other hand, would always emphasise the importance of realism with that book you read, I can’t remember the name, but I blindfolded myself to it’s cynicism immediately. Perhaps it was an act of affection to suggest lending it to me, perhaps you knew of my delusional tendencies, maybe the sight of such untainted romanticism sickened you, perhaps you even thought it was artificial. Maybe your slow detachment was born from the reading of that book which meant your own words “i’m crazy about you” lost it’s meaning letter by letter as you filled your head with the letters of this new book. I won’t lie, I did notice. But I read and re-read my diary entries whenever doubts arose until reality seemed as real as my excitement from the words on the paper, where i’d clothe myself with the girl from the first date repeatedly to rewrite a relationship composed of all the good things you brought me, never the bad.