It's so hard, spending the summer watching my friends and their dates. It seems like everyone is happy, and in love. I watch her boyfriend kiss her nose affectionately, and even such a simple gesture sends shooting pains through my heart. I don't even know this couple, and yet, their happiness is so thick around me, it's almost tangible. I don't like feeling this way; I really shouldn't feel this way.
I have a boyfriend too. I'm in love too.
Yet my love lives around five thousand miles away from me. See, I live in a southern small town in America. And recently, he moved to Germany, where he will remain with his family, for fourteen whole months.
I am utterly, totally broken. Seriously, it's pathetic.
But I'm not here to throw a pity party. I'm here to relive our last moments. As a writer, is supposed to make me feel better.
Here goes nothing.
We met at school. He was in the grade below me, but he was tall, gorgeous, ran track, and was hilarious and fun to be around to boot.
His name was Jake. *fans self with hand*
Ladies, you know what I mean?
I was done for.
Most people say that they fall in love. Like it's some kind of romantic, lilting, floaty, happy experience. And if that's what falling in love means, then I did not 'fall' in love.
I tripped on my inhibitions and tumbled over the cliff of love, ok? Left the apprehensive part of myself on the slick edge, peering right down into the mist and wondering:
What the hell?!
Yes, I tumbled and rolled and fought and kicked into love. And I know it doesn't necessarily sound romantic, but anyone who's been there...just, knows.
It's heady, intoxicating, and it took all my self control to avoid drunkenness. But any alcoholic will tell you, no matter how much you tell yourself, "I will not get drunk.", that sixth or seventh shot is always fuzzy. And you supposedly have this calm, wonderful, happiness. I wouldn't know, I have never been the type to partake in "liquid courage", but that's what I hear.
That's what being with him did to me.
Life was gentle, and softened at the edges. His attention was like a drug; I craved it. And the more I got, the better it felt, and the more I wanted. His smile made me weak in the knees, and holding his hand HAD to be better than any substance sold anywhere, legal or not.
We were in our own element, where life was slow, the sun was up all day, and the world was composed of us. Everything I saw reminded me of him. And every time the band Creed came on the radio, I heard his voice.
But then job promotions, and parents.
And Germany.
Our last date was a movie and dinner. I spent the hours getting ready, and he picked me up at six. We went to see Oz at the dollar theatre, and Mexican food afterwards. It was perfect. We were all inside jokes and uncontrollable laughter and gosh, I love you.
And now it's all emails at three in the morning, and planning for a six hour time difference. It's crying myself to sleep, not knowing if there's some beautiful German girl somewhere, feeling what I feel. I know I will be, 'her' among his new friends, and ' the B@$#& halfway across the world' to the potential love interests, to girls who realize just how wonderful he is.
And through it all, I keep remembering our last kiss. In the photo booth of the dollar theatre, he put his arm around me and looked down through his lashes. He kissed me like he meant it, and when he pulled back, he spoke the center of my world.
"I love you."
It's moments like this that keep me going.