It started fifteen years ago. Yes, it’s been going on for more than half of my quarter life. I’ve been living half of my life believing in an illusion.
The story is about a boy. My first love, to be exact. No, he wasn’t my first boyfriend. In fact, he was never my boyfriend. He had always been an almost, but never ever the real thing.
For one and a half decade, I’ve always regarded him with a certain fondness. A simple call or message from him makes my heart skip. His smile melts me. Perhaps I’m not alone, I’m only one of the countless girls enamored by his charms. He can easily woo any girl he desires. It is indeed flattering to be one of his favorites, the one he seems to come back to every now and then for the past 15 years. But somehow, nothing real ever transpired.
It’s always been a wonder to me why we could never be. It is easier to move on from something that happened and ended, than from something that never really happened. Maybe we keep coming back to try to figure out things and try to find answers.
I think I have finally found the answer. It took one last meetup with him to discover the truth that has been evading me for the longest time. It’s clear to me now that he and I will never ever be able to work it out, for reasons I choose not to disclose.
I’ve been living in an illusion for the last 15 years, but at least the illusion is a warm and happy one. I will still want to retain even just the memory of whatever was between him and me. But now I’ve reached a maturity that has already taught me that there is no point in waiting for “us” to happen. It’s a desperate and impossible case.
I’m moving forward with one less gigantic baggage off me. I’ve finally found closure.