Tuesday, 10 January 2012

One Year On

Exactly one year ago today, I wrote my first real blog post and what was arguably the most difficult thing I’ve ever written. I told you all about the most important and devastating relationship that I’d ever had with a boy, and I told you how heartbroken it left me.

When I wrote it, if I’m honest, I was still getting over said relationship. Part of me actually thought there might be a chance that it could be resolved. I had vague imaginings of him turning up one day, flowers in hand, offering to start again. Part of me wanted that more than anything.

That part of me has finally, after a year and a half, become so small that I barely even notice it anymore.

I don’t know when it happened, really. All I know is that, one day, I woke up and realised that my heart wasn’t actually broken anymore.

The universe, it seems, wasn’t happy about that.

Mere DAYS after deciding that it might be time to meet someone else, I actually bloody did.

And I fell for him far more quickly than I would have ever thought possible.

In fact, I probably loved him immediately. It sounds ridiculous – especially because I told very few people about him, anticipating this very outcome – but it was a case of love-at-first-sight, if ever there was one.

It didn’t really hit me, though, until I was in his flat for the first time not very long ago.

Those of you who have experienced the pleasure of my company will undoubtedly be aware of my shameful habit of cluttering places up immediately upon arrival. I carry an enormous amount of paraphernalia with me, always prepared for the most ridiculous of emergencies, and I have no qualms about where I scatter it.
Upon entering his flat, for instance, I went straight into the bedroom to rid myself of the giant bag I was carrying. At the same time, I tossed my cardigan thoughtlessly onto the bed. Strange thing to mention, I’m sure you’ll agree, but wait!

A few hours later, after he had gone to sleep, I wandered towards his bookshelf in the living room. I had a notion that I could read one of the more impressive-looking books during the night (because, as you may know, I struggle to sleep during appropriate hours) and then stun him with my cultural knowledge over breakfast.
On my way to put my plan into action, however, I passed my cardigan – no longer on the bed, it was now hung on the back of a door, next to his jacket.

If I hadn’t already been completely besotted with him, that would have done it. I can’t properly explain why. Perhaps it was because he had hung it there, and I felt a little bit looked after. Or maybe it was the way my cardigan looked so small and feminine next to his jacket. Or maybe, and most upsettingly, it was because it looked so normal, as though it was supposed to be there, and that’s exactly how I felt when I was with him.

I didn’t stay in the living room for long after that. I missed him. I – cynic, scoffer, non-believer – was pining for someone who was only a room away from me. So I got back into bed with him, and ACTUALLY WATCHED HIM SLEEP. Love, it seems, is all about clichés.

But, yesterday, things ended for good.

You don’t need to know anything else just yet.

Except that, for nine whole days of the New Year, I thought things were ok.

Happy Anniversary, me.

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