I turn myself inside out

First-year for me was a year of partying four times a week, drinking way too much vodka, kissing boys I’d just met, coming back to my dorm at 4am and then falling asleep outside my door because I was too drunk to fit the key into the keyhole. And I’d wake up feeling sick and hurting all over and I wouldn’t know what to do except run to the washroom and wait until it passes. And I’d swear to myself that I’d never drink again. Sometimes, by the time I’m done, it’s too late to even bother going to bed (if I actually wanted to make my 8:30 morning class) so I’d just go down to the caf and have a long breakfast with Zee, debriefing each other on the night’s events before dragging ourselves to class.
And then we’d do it all over again.

I didn’t really have a problem with this party-girl that had somehow appeared within me. As far as first-year university goes, this was the norm. But deep down, there was always a small voice saying – this isn’t you. You don’t wear makeup and show too much skin and click around in fuck-me heels. You don’t drink until you can’t see straight and you don’t make out with strangers.

Sometimes, in the middle of kissing some random boy whose name I don’t remember, or never bothered to ask, I’d pull back and look around. What am I doing here? How did I end up here? And who is this guy? He’s probably not going to call tomorrow, or ever. He’s probably not going to remember my name or what I looked like or even the fact that he kissed me. And then I’d push him away without a word, because there’s no tenderness in his kisses and no warmth in his arms.

And when I’m back in my room, alone and unable to fall asleep, I’d think of MFL.
First, I miss how he was always there for me. I knew I would miss this the most – he was my best friend, after all. Second, I miss how it felt to hold his hand. He always had sweaty hands. It was a condition that he was slightly embarrassed about, but I loved it because I could always be sure I was holding his hand and no one else’s. Third, I miss the look he gives me when I’m being exasperatingly stubborn. I used to go out of my way to be difficult because I wanted to see how much he could take, and he took it all. Fourth, I miss the way he’d remember every word I said. He would know what was going on on a particular day because I’d mentioned something about it weeks ago. Or he’d know what I should get a friend for her birthday because he’d remember some obscure conversation between us that I had relayed to him. Fifth, I miss how we were always thinking the same thing and he would finish my sentences. Sixth, I miss how it worked with him. It. Always. Worked. And with other boys, it doesn’t. At all. And I wonder if I was just the stupidest girl in the world for thinking there was something better than what we had.
Sometimes, I’d pull out my diary and read what I’d written when we were going out. Sometimes, I’d pull out the cards and letters he gave me and read them over. This last card really got me:

For My Soul Mate

If you ever wonder how I feel about you…
Look in the mirror.
In your reflection you’ll see
the person I want to spend
my whole life with,
the one I love more than words can say,
the one who makes me happy,
the one I want to grow old with.

So if you ever have any doubts about who makes my life complete,
look into the mirror and you’ll see.

I’ll remember how he planned our anniversary night two months in advance. I’ll remember the time he waited three hours on the subway platform for me when I wasn’t able to call him to tell him I was going to be late. I’ll remember how, that summer he spent in Hong Kong, he stayed up until 4 in the morning every other night for two whole months in order to call me (it’s a 12-hour time zone difference). I’ll remember how he wrote me a three-page letter every day when he was in Egypt for a week. I’ll remember how he brought me roses in the rain randomly.

And I’d get a little tearful. And I’d think, tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’m going to call him. I’m going to call him and tell him all these things. That I miss him on these six points and a million others.
I’d eventually drift into sleep. When I wake up, I’m already over it and I get on with my day. And then night comes and I’d find another boy’s arms to try out, and again, I’d come home alone and unsatisfied. And again, I’d think about MFL and doubt myself.

And so the cycle repeats.

But I can never call him and tell him these things. There are just some things you don’t do, and resurrecting a love whose time has come and gone is one of them. Because, as hard as it is to be without him, as hard as it is to find someone who understands me and loves me as much as he did, this is the way it was meant to be. He wasn’t – isn’t – the One. I knew it then and I know it now. If we got back together, all the doubts that pervaded me when we were together would still be there, and probably moreso now that both of us have changed.

To me, dating is not a game. It’s not something I do because I’m bored and would rather stare at the man-candy hanging off my arm than my dog. There’s only one thing I’m looking for, only one man I need in my life. And I believe when he comes knocking on my door, I’ll know it. There’ll be a clap of thunder and a swell of music and maybe a gong will be hit somewhere. I’ll just know it.

So, Mr. Right, where are you?

Inspired by this post.