We disappeared from each others lives for two years. I would be lying if I said that I was not happy to see you. But it would also be a lie if I said that my emotions were at the other end of the meter. It was somewhat funny and delusional that I was simultaneously contented and scared. However, I was certain that everything we said was honest, and that was all it took for me to see passed the dissatisfied.

And truth to be told, I was going to tell you that I liked you because I knew your rejection was what I needed to finally move on.

I remember that night when we were sipping on wine and hanging out with our dear friend Mary Jane. We were living in laughters, and that was when you asked me if I thought I was crazy. I smiled back, completely clear of what you meant. Well, yes, I do think I’m crazy in that way. One of my favorite quotes in reference to this notion is that for a man to constantly deprive himself of happiness and to embrace sadness and deny happiness inevitably becomes crazy after a certain point. So yes, I am crazy. But am I crazy? I don’t know. Maybe, but I hope not.

The bitterness I feel burns holes in my insides and all I feel is numb. After so long I would expect myself to forget you—to not even flinch at the sound of your name or a voice similar to yours, but holy sh!t...am I still so weak? Remembering you feels like a dream. A dream that I struggle to remember over sips of coffee that I wish could wash away the faded memories of you. Sometimes I forget that I miss you, but when I finally do, it hits me like a f*cking train.

I am afraid to think about you. I am so afraid that it absolutely terrifies me to write about you. It is not because I am trying to avoid showing you how I feel; I know this is not reciprocated and I know that this honestly will only push you away, maybe for good. I am scared because the more I write about you, the more I begin falling in love with this projected image of you. I begin falling in love with this static person in my memory, and not the real you. And though I know that these qualities may not change and that these memories are only a few weeks young, it is always dangerous to fall in love with an apparition – especially a fleeting one.

We all want to believe that we are loved. We are told that if we do good things in the world, good things will happen to us. We fundamentally want to believe in “the one” and that the fairytales we were raised on were more than just fictional stories. We see happiness elude us and we desperately yearn for that human carnal instinct – companionship. It is way too easy to overthink the meaning of a hand of the curvatures of your back guiding you across a busy street and it’s far too easy to become infatuated with the first person who you’ve felt a spark within years.

But this is reality. Things don’t go the way we want them to. You could say that this is fate, or you could say that these are the woes of life. But at the end of the day, it does not matter how you choose to justify it, because at the end of the day, we do not get everything we want.

To nostalgic afternoon sunshine and crossed legs by the fountain and cheap ice cream. To long drives by the ocean. To the light reflecting off of our sunglasses and to happiness refracted all around us. To being honest, earnest, and present. To giving the greatest gift you could have ever given to me: reminding me that sparks do exist and to never compromise for anything less.

I am hopelessly in love with a memory. An echo from another time, another place. I know that all of this will amount to nothing and I know that this will be another ache, but at least I can walk away knowing how it truly feels to have loved and lost.