Writing To Remember

Why Him?

Oh yeah, why? I don't even remember why anymore. When people ask me what made me fall in love, what made me choose him, what made me do everything I did with him, I tell them that I have no clue. I wonder why I do everything for him, yet I don't give a single thought on whether he returns the favour. I don't know why I didn't choose the other boy with a brighter future, the boy with a more prestigious life ahead of him. I chose a boy who makes boyishly foolish decisions like cycling in the rain, playing soccer 'til he hurt all over, and fighting it out with another guy for no good reason. I would always be there to clean out the mud in his bike, rub out his aches, and tend to every single one of his wounds. I didn't care if I got anything in return, I never did. All I knew is that I would have done anything for him in a split second if he asked me to. And people ask me why I chose to make such a foolish decision.

Our first kiss was on a Friday afternoon, and we didn't really know what to expect because we were each other's firsts. We didn't know what kissing felt like, so we experimented till we thought it felt about right. Neither did we know what we were getting ourselves into when we went further than kissing. When we went further than using our tongues, when we went all the way to third base. I felt the need to apologise to all who taught me at Sunday school. I didn't listen when you said to keep chaste, I didn't listen when you told me to keep myself sacred for the right one. Third base may not seem like a lot, but to me, it was significant. Another being saw what only I would see, touched what only I would touch, and felt what only I would feel. I found myself revolting. I pushed his hands away not because I did not want him to reciprocate what I was doing to him, but only because of the fact that him touching me inherently made me realise that I once promised myself I would keep myself for the right one. I promised myself so many things: that I would not go further than kissing with him, that I would not give in to him time and again, that I would not let him touch what only I could touch. And all these promises turned into what became of my promise to my mother - withered hopes and expectations that I once thought I could live up to.

Mom, I'm sorry.

***

I wrote this at a time where I was so lovesick I hated literally everything