Scuzie!

The first boy to ever profess his love for me was in kindergarten. He stood under my building every morning and yelled my name until I came down. This was, according to my parents, normal in our neighbourhood. We’d walk to school together hand in hand, he’d share his favourite hiding spots with me, and bring me the best rocks he could find. In class, when the teacher asked for volunteers, he’d always grab my hand and throw it in the air, and glared at anyone else who wanted to volunteer. He saved me his favourite part of his lunch, because he knew I hated the school lunch.

And then I came to Canada, and I left him and his rocks behind.

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I was in love once.
For 15 months.

The incredible thing is that he loved me too.
Crazy, right? I know.

So why did I break his heart?

Sometimes I look back on it and wonder if I did the right thing. Being with him was the happiest time of my life. He understood me in ways that I never expected anyone could. Literally, he would say a sentence with the exact same words that are about to come out of my mouth. When we first met and barely knew each other, our friends would always joke that we were like long-lost twins, because we always said the exact same thing at the same time, and then there would be a silence where we’d look at each other and everyone would burst into giggles.

He knew me so well. He was always there for me and he always knew just what I needed. He’d bring me food on days when I’m particularly stressed; he’d leave things in my locker to cheer me up – especially if we couldn’t see each other that day; all this unprompted. I never knew how he knew which days I needed his support the most, but somehow, he knew.
True love or psychic?

Sometimes I thought he might be my soul mate. But I never told him that. Just like I never told him I loved him.
I still remember the first time he said those three words. And I kind of just… froze. I never expected to hear him say that to me out of nowhere. He’s not the kind of guy to make the first move. I always felt like I was the man in the relationship in that way.

But that day, he said “I love you.”

No ifs, buts, or whens. Just, “I love you.”
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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.
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