MAI。
The first time I texted you was the time I understood that you were more open inside a closed device than when we were face to face.
Your sentences were longer, more relaxed and were almost impossible to imagine them come out of your lips. I wanted with everything I had, to change it. I wanted you to be more open with me when I looked you in the eyes and you did the same. I wanted you to see the way you affected me anytime you spoke, laughed or even took a breath. I wanted you to know that I was obsessed with you.
Even though it had been two months and that our friendship was barely solidifying, I wanted us to be more. I wanted to stop pretending that my heart never got the habit of beating too loudly whenever I saw you or read a text from you. I wanted to stop pretending that your eyes didn't draw me in the way only you could. I wanted to stop pretending that I had no feelings for you.
Because, love, I did have feelings for you. They were so strong that I sometimes grew scared that they might burst inappropriately.
On that day, you invited me to your apartment because you thought it would only seem fair since you already knew mine.
The sun was pleasant as we walked and because we were nearing summer, the weather grew a little warmer. You looked exquisite as usual with your hair in a ponytail now. As we walked, I complimented you on it and you clumsily thanked me. You also told me that my hair was growing longer and tried to touch it but quickly pulled away. I didn't know why you did that, but I was upset that you thought I wouldn't let you touch me. I didn't want you to be restricted around me and wished to let you know, but you were already walking ahead.
We reached your apartment and you meekly ushered me in to your place. It felt like a huge step you were taking and right then, I appreciated your effort to trust me.
I still recall what we did once you were a little bit comfortable: we ate, watched crappy French TV, talked a little, and ate again. Then you started asking me questions about my life in England before I came to France—before I met you—and I told you whatever you wanted to know without leaving any detail out. You questioned me again, wanting to know if I believed in love to which I said that I did.
You let out a humourless chuckle and called me an idealist. You told me to think more realistically and I told you that that was what I believed in and there was nothing I could do to change it. I knew you wanted to say more but you quickly closed your mouth and focused on the French show that was on.
I didn't understand it not even when you tried to translate it to me. So instead I decided to look at you until the show ended.
You should have seen your face. If only you had seen your face.
You were beautiful. Your face was illuminated by the sun that was peering through the window. Your beauty spots were more prominent now. Your lips would twitch whenever something funny happened and you would smile when someone said something. You would frown a little and bite your lip when the suspense built and gasp a little when you were not expecting something to happen.
Then I told you that I was in love with you.
I remember how you froze completely but still kept your eyes trained on the TV screen. You didn't move or say a thing, but I couldn't blame you. I didn't mean to say it but I couldn't hold it any longer. I had to tell you.
Saying that I loved you wouldn't do, so I had to add that I was in love with you. It was me, all me; my whole being— soul, body and everything else—was in love with you. I didn't care what anyone had to say or do; I honestly didn't need any poetic knowledge to express how I felt. I didn't have time to have that.
But I had myself and I chose to give that to you.
Time was insignificant as we sat in your living room. The show had long ended and you were still staring at the screen with no words said.
You looked at me then and I saw your eyes welling up. A lone tear escaped your beautiful eye and you didn't bother wiping it away. You only gulped, apologised to me again and left me alone in your apartment.
At least that was what I was expecting.
But instead, you turned to me and said: "I am infatuated with you, Harry."
Your reply didn't surprise me. You didn't believe that love could happen so fast, so you settled on infatuation. But I was more different; I knew what I felt and what I felt was pure love.
For the first time, you let me touch you. I placed my hand on one side of your face and watched as your eyes momentarily closed before opening shortly after. They were a beautiful brown—just as mysterious and enticing as you were. My hand ran down to your neck and you let me trace my fingers along your skin. You let me touch your lips with my fingers and let me touch the softness of the curls on your head.
Though I wanted to keep going, I pulled away from you and pulled you into another embrace then left your apartment.
