This is the second of a two-part
love story. Click here to read Part 1.
It scares me how much I love him.
I’m afraid of him. This guy… who I’ve been spending most of my every days with. I’m afraid of how he makes me feel; how I always find myself wishing that every instant spent with him would last forever. That every time I’m with him, I just want to tell him how cute he is, or how smart he sounds when he talks, or how good he smells. I’m afraid of liking him so much.
Yet, I love how is always there for me, whether I need him to or not. How he stays up late when I can’t sleep. That he would listen to me whine/cry/rant up until the wee hours of the morning, even on the most boring and petty topics like politics or heartbreak.
I love how he is someone who I could share my dreams with. Although he is always the first to laugh at all the flaws and naivety in them, he would still try to support me when he can.
I love how he could get me to bend the rules and break free from all my high standards. He was the nail and hammer that chipped away at the resilient stone walls I’ve been building around me for years; inevitably replaced into the supporting beams which I rather needed. Despite how meticulous I can be, with him, I become less uptight and more comfortable on so many aspects.
Sometimes, I get tempted to text him, “I can’t stop thinking about you.” I’m pretty sure he would want to know about it. And I bet he would have cracked a smile upon seeing that text. He would probably tell me how happy that has made him, or that he couldn’t stop thinking about me as well. But as much as I want to, I couldn’t send it.
I love it when he holds my hand. Those fleeting moments when his fingertips lightly stroke my knuckles as his palm inches its way into mine. I want to tell him how at that split second, I feel an infinite sense of joy around me. I’m sure he would have known how much I meant it. But I can’t let those words run out of my big mouth, so I do my darnedest not to.
I won’t tell him. I can’t tell him. Because then he’d know, and I’m afraid he might do something to fuck things up.
You see, a few miles away, someone who loves me is waiting earnestly for me. Through the years, this man continually made me feel smart, safe, and innocent.
And out of nowhere, this other guy who I’m so afraid of… helped me live spontaneously, passionately, happily.
He mixed dabs of colors into my palette, while my man was just… well, a still canvas.
He was the initiator and the leader— my man was the response and the submissive nod of the head.
He was the wind that persisted even on the days I was reluctantly forcing it away – my man was the air that I’ve been so accustomed to, I have trouble remembering it exists.
I keep battling with the fact that this guy is so close to being mine – if we had only met on another time or place or universe, things would have have been different.
I want to tell him that I love him…
If only I met him earlier. If only I met him first. But I didn’t, so…