thoughts of an aromantic

6.

"what plagues you?" he asked me, once.

"romance," I told him.

-

I remember it vividly. I've lost too many friends to this disease. We sat on the stone bench, and the clouds moved as if they were chasing the sun; fast enough to look like they were running away. I remember wanting to be in the clouds. I remember wanting to be away from here, from this reality that was happening, and that kept happening.

"what's wrong with you?" he asked me.

there that sentence hung in the air between us, and I remember now how i wasn't looking at him. how instead i looked up at the clouds that seemed to run faster than my thoughts.

"yeah, there's a word for it," i think i said.

-

he told me that it was normal. i remember hating him for saying that.

he said that based on my duly noted inexperience with the physicalities and mentalities that associate with the paradigm of love and romance that it was completely and utterly normal to feel very much useless.

those weren't his words exactly. his words were more along the lines of, "just 'cuz you've never been with anyone before."

but i got the gist of it.

-

it hurts to remember it now, only because i love to live in my small world of denial. it was a comfort that no one else would understand. it was my own comfort of suppression, with its thin layer of repression.

i liked forgetting and not knowing and never knowing what it might feel like.

i sometimes wish he would understand, until i tell myself that that could never happen. until i tell myself that his thick brain would never comprehend besides the single fact that, no, i will not let you fuck me, you may never have me.

and only that makes him want me more. only that devestates him. and so i let him be disappointed.

-

(an: way too hard of a chapter to write, but its enough for me, i think.)