Arcadia

21

Memories from other lives #1

I look at you, I look for that one sign of vulnerability, I look for all the flaws that made you, you. You look beautiful, as always. But I try to see beyond, to find one flaw, to find the you that I loved, but no.

You are here with your boyfriend, but you don't lean over his arm like you did over mine. You don't look up to whisper in his ear. You don't steal secret kisses from him. He's definitely better looking than me, I quickly gauge his attire to make out he's richer. A part of me hates myself for being this petty. They say you make a perfect couple, but they only see two bodies in love. Does he make you laugh? Do you curl up against him when it gets too cold? Does he stay up with you when those sleepless nights hit and you want to stay up and talk. Does he love you like I do?

No. He can't. He hasn't known you as long as I have. He wasn't there when you got drunk for the first time at prom. He didn't hold your hair back when you threw up in the bin. He wasn't the first one you called when you made it to university. He never played with your sister. He didn't go looking for houses with you, two little birds building up a nest of their own. He wasn't there to dream your dreams. But we dreamt together. And I wonder if you stay up at night thinking of all that we could have been, I wonder if you hurt as much as I do, I wonder if you cry.

Do you even remember why we broke up? But I see why we couldn't be together. We are so different now. I dyed my hair a weird colour, knowing it was something you wouldn't like. People say I found a new personality with it as well. I guess they are right, the thing is, I played a character for so long I lost myself somewhere on the way.
Eight years is a lot of time, especially when you grow up together, your identities get entangled. I didn't feel like myself when you were gone, like a part of me has left with you. It has, I guess. You left a void, a huge hole where I used to be, and the ripped jeans and shitty music and nameless faces in hotel rooms do little to fill that up.

Eight years is a lot of time, there's a lot you bargain for. I still have those jumpers that your grandma used to make for us every Christmas. I walk by your family's little takeaway, I was there when it was being set up, moving around boxes and things with your dad. I don't go there anymore, I can't. I miss your sister, I see her grow up in the pictures, I see her gush over the new man your life. I wish I was him. I wish I could still belong. I wish it was me who would take her to the beach to make sand castles, I wish it was us who would make her fake money for her little purse. I wonder at how easily I got replaced. I wonder if they miss me too.

I fell in love again, like you said I would. My friends say she looks just like you. Maybe. But she isn't anything like you, trust me. No one can ever be you. She calls me her soulmate, I kiss her. I try not to wish it was you, but it is hard, sometimes. She is young, she lives and she laughs, and she loves like there is no tomorrow. I find it hard to keep up with her sometimes. It's really hard, pretending to be something you are not. I still dance with her, 'love' is a weird word, but she is all I have, I hold on tight to her at night. But the fire on her lips never compares to the strength in touch of your hand, the promise of your fingers around mine.

We play the game all lovers play. In case chance ends us up in different corners of the room, we pretend we never knew each other at all. And yet, you burn in the back of my mind the whole time. You, who couldn't get through a day without talking to me, how do you laugh like you do now. But look at me laughing too, it's easy. Why do I have to pretend like it didn't happen, when it tore me apart? Whatever happened to all the promises of forever that we made?

I remember the first time you told me you loved me. It was so long ago, but I still remember it clear as day. You would tease me about it for years after, how I pretended I didn't hear it, but I just couldn't believe it was actually happening, it was quite a while before I said it back. You squeezed my hand, and oh, it hurts like hell, how real all of it is even after all these years.

You're dancing with him now, all in perfect steps, neat, organised, perfect, pretty. Just like you , like you want your life to be, perfect and pretty all the time. That's all they see. They don't see how much you hurt beneath that, they don't see your scars. You don't let them. I remember how you cried, hunched over, making no sound, like you didn't want the world to be bothered by your pain. That was you at your most vulnerable, strong as you are, and that was when I loved you best. You needed me then, you needed me the most. You needed me to kiss the pain away and tell you you're beautiful. I'd keep talking until your tears turned to sniffles and you chuckled through your tears, and I could laugh at how disgusting that was. You told me my voice was soothing, and as much as I always hated my voice, I still feel like if it made you feel better once, it's good enough.

Does he hold you like that? I hope he doesn't, I hope he doesn't have to. I hope he loves you so much and keeps you so happy that you never have to cry anymore. I hope he does all the things I couldn't do, I hope he's everything that I never could be for you. But you just have to know this, he can't love you like I do. No one can. 

I would do anything to have you back, to wake up to smile, your real smile, not the fake one you're putting on right now. It fools everyone, but it can never fool me. I just know you so well, to read beyond that clear, tinkling laugh of yours echoing around the room like little bells, and I know that you just want to go home. I'll take you home, I almost say out loud, but we don't have the same home anymore. But he takes you out anyway, and on your way out I sneak a glance and I see you look at him gratefully and he kisses the top of your head, and maybe it'll be okay, I think. I think of her waiting back at home for me, all laughter and sunshine and summer, probably with a pizza box, the result of another failed attempt at cooking and I guess it'll be okay. I don't think I can ever stop loving you, but you and I, I guess we're not each other's home, not anymore.