The closest thing to living twice is knowing that your death and your happiness is also another person’s.
Of all the foreign new feelings, it is taking me the longest to adjust to feeling loved. To be pulled to stay another 30 minutes, to hug and kiss one more time, I don’t think words provide a better expression of love. I remembered a picture that I saw in a video game a few years ago. It showed a guy being pulled by a girl, as he tried to put down his glass of wine. I remembered feeling bitter sadness. What I mean is sadness that is caused not only by deprivation but by jealousy as well.
It feels as if I passed a long test of patience, and I was finally rewarded. Not just since being a teenager, but since being a kid when my parents felt as adversaries most of the time. As if all the cheesy repetitive words of encouragement became true all at once. The same words of encouragement that I criticized in-depth and rejected for being generic, inaccurate, and insincere.
I overthink every date: what to say, and more importantly, what to wait much much later before saying. Yet, every time it seems to go in the best direction regardless of my plans. I am not often speechless. But I write today for the same reasons that I started the blog: having too many thoughts and feelings. Maybe the only reason my writing improved over the years is that I understood what I felt as time went by.
These days, my feelings are new and foreign. I struggle, as I did a few years ago, to express them. I feel numb for a few days after we meet. I remember and I feel, but I struggle to conjure up more than the generic “I love her”. It is overwhelming, and I grieve for the day it stops being so.