I was done writing about my love life; droning on and on about the magical miseries of purposefully deceitful relationships was no longer within my mental capabilities. I was longing for something much more guiltless and meaningful than the over-rated and rather pretentious adulthood. Once again, I was nostalgic, but for all the wrong reasons.
It was inexplicably hard to justify my thoughts. I had become everything I had once criticised others for being. I wasn’t one to cheat. Anything that required a cent of dishonesty, I stayed miles away from. I was a good person, or at least I thought so. But a lot like the tacky love ballads that dramatically exhibit the phases of love, I had fallen hard. I was 16 again. Admittedly, I was enjoying it thoroughly: the random smiles while looking into empty space, the queasy feeling before meeting J, and the rapid increase in my heart rate when I looked into those hazel eyes. I was in an inescapable daze.
But all too soon, reality came crashing to the floor. I was in my late twenties and I, was a mess. It was time to face facts, I wasn’t going to be single handedly responsible for breaking two hearts: mine and my partners, for whatever I had for J was completely unrequited. Suddenly, I remembered how it really was to be 16: the heartaches, the discomfort of being clueless, and the constant fear of rejection. But here I am, still writing about my love life, fictional as it may be.
