COMPLETED. A university student. A professional hockey player. They've proved they can be friends. Can they be more?
Although they're both in their early twenties and living in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, their lives couldn't be more different. Cami...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The messages started out innocent enough, but quickly skyrocketed in urgency.
Taylor: Camille.
Taylor: Camille, please answer me.
Taylor: I need to talk to you.
I couldn't answer him. And it wasn't because reengaging in communication with Taylor would only push me two steps back and pour more holes in my heart. Those things were probably true, but I literally couldn't answer him.
My fingers were covered in ketchup chip residue—which let me assure you, is absolutely delicious. I speak from experience—and I'd rather not get the screen of my iPhone covered with the greasy red crumbs.
Taylor had given up calling me a few days ago, but he never failed to send a text message or two daily. At best, his behaviour was insane, because he was doing the same thing over and over with the same result. No response from me. At worst, though, you could argue that he was harassing me because of the whole persistent, never leaving me alone aspect of it. But didn't the definition of harassment imply that the behaviour was unwanted? That, pathetically, was not the case for this situation. Just because I didn't answer Taylor didn't mean I wanted him to stop trying. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I saw those daily messages as daily reminders that Taylor still thought about me. Pathetic, right?
I was being greedy. I wanted him to give me a break and time to sort my feelings on my own but I also wanted to be on his mind.
Selfish.
With my phone sitting on my bed next to my laptop, I looked at these messages for an extra beat longer than usual. Maybe it was because a distraction—any distraction—was more than welcomed. My task of the evening wasn't homework or my thesis, but it was definitely school-related.
More specifically: grad school related.
I had found out the day before that I had got accepted to the University of Toronto, which officially ended The Waiting Game. Now, I had to decide which school I actually wanted to go to, which was neither fun nor easy. (Even though I knew a good amount about all the programs when I applied to them, I wanted to make sure I had all the details covered now. Besides, when push came to shove and I had to actually think about attending these schools, things I thought I could overlook became huge red flags.)
And yeah, the whole process was anxiety inducing.
But maybe the real reason behind my extra attention to the messages was that they stood out from the others he had sent. They had a different vibe, a different flavour. Usually Taylor would just send a "How's it going?" or "I'm sorry, I really am," or "I'm an idiot and I love you." (Just kidding. He never sent that last one. I wish.) The point was, it never seemed like the world would end if I didn't respond. But these ones, though, made me feel like there was a fire nearby.
Taylor: Check your email and respond. Please.
What? Check my email? As soon as he said that, my phone pinged. I already had my email opened on my laptop, along with U of T and U of W's psychology department websites.
