Filing memories, 4

Writing has proved itself to be cathartic: as much as I fear the unearthing of emotions that it would bring, I am surprised at how un-upset I am; way less than I thought I'd be.

Why? I don't think it's because I like him any less..

It seems to be a combination of - the sense of futility hitting home, a bit of embarrassment at the realization of how effusive and heartfelt I had been - feminists and advocators of 'protecting your heart' would decry my throwing caution to the wind and relative disregard for 'dignity'.

But love (or like, if you cringe at the use of the word so early), is about taking risks for what you believe in, and for taking (wisely-considered) chances. One may build walls around their heart so they never get hurt - but I believe that if it means enough to you, one should take risks for it.

...

+ None the wiser

And so after the last movie/cocktails, there was a perceptible decrease in the communication and frequency of talks. I didn't quite understand it - I felt that it had gone well; why the sudden pulling away?

During this time we had a couple of discussions about where this way going, usually not quite that pointed, but with certain mixed signals from him. I never quite figured out with certainty what you were thinking: yes, this is despite being apparently able to read you pretty well: you liked to ask my take on what was going on, then would invariably agree (with approval, I’d like to think) with my interpretation of it. So much so that during a time that when I commented in semi frustration that I didn’t know what you were thinking, you replied in mock surprise – ‘well, I thought you had me all figured out’? Perhaps, perhaps. So did you – you understood me very well.

You always claimed that I viewed you in too good a light, that I was biased towards you – I’d protest and say that no way, I was biased against you..I honestly had started to doubt your standard of English at that time.

Then one day I pointed out that I was biased against – because I second-read all the things you did to view them in a more cynical light, in case I had been overly optimistic. You replied that I was actually biased towards you, but m ‘270 self’ had been checking myself all the way.

I was floored. At that point, I realized that perhaps you read me better in some ways than I could read myself.

So, back to the mixed signals. As time passed, it felt as if you were trying to push me away. Sometimes there were lapses, and we're excitedly go on just like when it all started.

My humble take is that – perhaps you liked me, but were too wary. Wary that someone could fall so hard, so fast, logically. Perhaps I was blinded (as you pointed out often), seeing too many good things about you and too little flaws. Perhaps you weren’t ready to risk it with a virtual stranger, no matter how well we hit it off. Perhaps my forthrightness scared you.

Or perhaps I’ve been reading this more favorably than it actually was: perhaps you were just lonely, and sharing your dreams and hopes for a family and companionship with another person who just happened to seemingly understand you – but without hopes or aspirations for a future with that person. Y’know, just like how sharing how I’d like to have a car or a dog – doesn’t mean I’d like to own it with the person I’m talking to. Perhaps.

Do you remember asking me what I’d describe myself as? I said I functioned on Hope, for lack of a better word. You said you were a Dreamer. Ain’t that different, don’t you think?

+ Counting stars

So we lasted around 1.5 weeks of semi-quietness before you texted near midnight one day, asking if I was free. I said yes, and you muttered something about trying to decide whether to ask me out for supper. I didn’t quite understand the trying-to-decide part.

After hemming and hawing for over an hour – apparently after you were done with gym – you decided to go for supper. Swung over and picked me up.

We ended up having beancurd at Rochor. Humble fare (don’t get me wrong, I like it), lovely company. Chatted for a while…while walking back to the car I mentioned that I didn’t wanna go back so early and wanted to walk around the vicinity. You said there wasn’t much to walk about around there – and so you drove to the Barrage instead.

I think I told you – I haven’t been to barrage before. You mentioned that you’d give me a tour, then.

I was quite taken by the rights at the top of the ramp: the sky in the distance was a dusty pink, and there was a quiet serenity. A relentless gentle breeze lapped at my messy hair – here  I was in an oversize tie-dye shirt and shorts, gazing into the distance, pointing out inane things like the buildings we saw, talking about the color of the sky….and enjoying every moment of it. You said you were color-blind, ‘not very serious’ – I did not know if such a thing was clinically possible – but was just happy to listen and talk and guess what each shape looked like. You said MBS looked like an ironing board; I said the flyer looked like a Dyson fan – silly stuff like these.

We moved to the other side of the ramp, facing away from the mainland. You said Indonesia was on the horizon (I had no idea). But I was willing to learn, glad to listen. We watched the clouds and tried to count the stars. I wondered aloud about the halo surrounding the moon. We did kiddy stuff like these, side by side, watching in silence, as the breeze blew. The occasional night-cycline group passed far down below, in animated silence. The companionable silence was comforting, like a thick blanket one snuggles in – just taking in its fluffiness and warmth. Out of the corner of my eye I spied you glancing over as I surveyed the horizon, a contented smile on my lips and heart and brain drifting off into some comfortable wordless space.

After 2? More? Hours of counting stars and looking at clouds, you said it was late and we should go. Okay, I said, my voice belying reluctance, and followed behind you with heavy steps.

You drove me back. The last song that was on the radio, as you drove down U.S. road and turned into my estate, was Don’t Say You Love Me.

Don’t say you love me / You don’t even know me

If you really want me / then give me some time

Don’t go there baby / Not before I’m ready

Don’t say your heart’s in a hurry / It’s not like we’re gonna get married

Give me, give me, some time

I was singing along semi-cheerfully, fully aware of the irony of that song – and that I was singing along to it.

I got off at my gate and waved. You smiled reassuringly and wished me good night.

That was the last time I went out with you.