Today you are the and in between Scriptwriting and Theories. You are the conjunction of the fun discussion and humiliating recitation. You are the battery I forgot to charge, the smudged eyeliner I did not bother to wipe, and the stomach hungry of butterflies.

As if cups of coffee were not enough to calm me down and hype me up, you stand along the corridor waiting for your class to start. I force my cheeks not to turn the same color as my sweater, or at least do I try. In three seconds, I counted, you searched for where my eyes are and make no effort to turn away. In three seconds are where all my frustrations and heartaches and all the bullshit I deal with come to halt. In three seconds I am sure it is me you are looking at.

Today is the right amount of humiliation and seeing you. Today is the right amount of embarrassing stupidity and reciprocating certainty. Today is the right amount of sharing three seconds with you.

But expectations, they get the best out of you. They tear you up into tiny, unfathomable pieces and when they are done chewing you up, they will spit you out like an unworthy inhabitant of their filthy little mouths.

Why?

I wanted to trick myself into thinking that I don’t know the answers. I wanted to look up the ceiling which unlike me, so sure of its form, or beyond the window backdropped with rooftops and laundry, sip my coffee and intentionally burn my chapped upper lip with it, and think about why.

Why I had so many chances of a possible lasting relationship but somehow managed to screw one thing or another up. Why I find myself, almost always, as a slave to loneliness, when I had every bit of opportunity to finally free myself from it. Why I never had the strength, maybe courage, or was it the lack of interest, to keep people.

To keep people. Sometimes seems a fairly easy thing to do.

I’m just like the rain, people are never so sure when I will go.

And a string of maybes found me crumpled in the corner of my two-meter single bed, half of which is filled with an ashtray overwhelmed with cigarette butts, cans of beer and books half-read and half-understood. An open notebook, hundreds of coins and about three lighters. I try not to giggle with pleasure. How can things this horrible, be the only things who can hang on to me. It’s because they simply do not have souls, preferences. It’s not like they can run away from me, not like they can kick me out of their pathetic, short-lived lives. It’s not like they have a choice. 

I wish people were less picky, I wish people don’t have much options.

I wanted to trace the contents of your heart and see if I was anywhere inside. I wanted to lay my head on your thighs and try not to panic with delight. I wanted to whisper your name in the air and feel as if you were there. I wanted to lie naked with you on the bathroom floor and kiss you on the lips like nobody ever did. I wanted to crumble into pieces in front of you because everything I wanted with you, you wanted with somebody else.

I need someone to save me. One who will replace the miserable thoughts racing nonstop over my head with memories that will be so beautiful its impossible to get them out of my mind. One who will not cup my cold feet in his hands but will take off his socks so he will know what I’m feeling. One who will sleep side by side with me, then turn his back so I can lay my face on his spine, wrap my arms around his body, and hold my hands on his end. One who I can wake up to in the morning with teeth abused by cigarettes and vodka the night before but will still not hesitate to kiss me. One who will watch the stars with me, walk with me in the night and tag all the walls of this city with me.

In the same way, I need someone to save. I need someone who will give it all to me, but someone I can give everything, too. I need a mutual addiction, that desperation for each other so intense you find it hard to breathe when the other’s not around. We can leave this city, burn the streets on the way down and head to nowhere with only our boards and each other. We will find ourselves passed out on the middle of the road, and we’ll just lay there, knowing we’ll get run over any minute now, but we’ll still hold each other’s hands and close our eyes, whisper “I’ll share my last breath with you.”

Here I am, my stomach pressed against the mattress of my bed, placed opposite the dreadful walking closet, a few meters adjacent the door, beside the cold unstable wall. I just had a stick of red Marlboro. Peeping over the window, the view was wonderful. The moon is at its slight fullest, the clouds moving, covering it from time to time. The Killers is playing on the loudest volume of my mobile phone, the one my brother gave me over a year ago.

Here I am, broke, hungry and feeling more alone than I have ever been in my life. Feeling betrayed by the universe which hides its true form through people, situations, episodes. No messages on my phone, no “Where are you?”s from my friends, or so I like to call them. No one knows how immensely miserable I am right now, and no one should. I will be fine, I should be fine. I can get out of this hellhole that is my life.

Here I am, morning arriving on me and contemplating about how the building in front of my house should have not been standing where it does, blocking the beautiful sunrise I am a sucker for. I tell myself that this is going to be a good day. It was not. Whatever gene it takes to “have a feeling that a day is going to be a good one” and succeed on it, I apparently lack.

Here I am, replaying perfect, desirable moments in my head. Moments I wished had stayed longer, moments which will never happen again, moments which will continually break me, in pieces, shattering. 

I don’t know what took me so long to realize that what I pictured in my head, the two of us together, me trying to fix you up and you saving me, is never going to happen. It is in the same way that I realized that we are not going to be even good friends either. We’re just, as difficult as it is to take in, not for each other.

What happened to us, really? Had there been an “us” or was it just you and me individually to begin with? Do you even think about me like I think about you? Do I even cross your mind for a second? How difficult it is to relive romantic moments only in my dreams knowing that you already threw those memories away, pretended like nothing ever happened.

You crushed me, the most solid pieces of me pulverized by you indirectly pushing me away, leaving when I am around, being in another room just because I was on the other. In the most callous of ways, you crushed me.

Things are just never the way you imagined it would be, one minute you’re inside the warmth of his arms wrapped around you, the next he’ll do everything just to be ten feet away from you.

It’s funny how people tell you to be honest about what you feel. It’s also funny how they don’t tell you what’s it going to cost. It’s no longer funny when all you have left is your heart shattered into pieces and still, the hope that the same person who broke it will put it back up.