When I asked you why we did not happen, you told me that I was too romantic for you, that my chaos did not fit into the orderly compartments in your life.

Even now, when we talk sometimes – as friends – friends who laugh about what could have been, when you listen to me with more patience and interest than ever, I am surprised by how often I filter my stories of joy. That I resort to the interesting experiences, or even the terrible mishaps, both with the subtle intent of getting your attention in forms of envy and empathy, but I never risk telling you the other things I see, the other dreams I still believe in, even though we are too far apart for them to matter. And yet, I am freer with you than I am with anyone else, any other boy, I send you pictures of the nights I look my best, I can be on video call with you doing everyday things in my ugliest, and I feel pretty each time, because I remember how you used to look at me, I still see you giving that look, stealthily, guiltily. In those moments, I nearly get weak, I almost tell you what I want to, but I hold back.

I want to tell you that the other day I was late for class because I stopped to stare at a tree, the tree with the pink leaves, leaves that had shed so beautifully in a half circle in front of it that it seemed to have rained pink all night. I spent so long on that spot I lost track of time. I tried to take a picture, but I did not like anything I captured, and so I stared long enough to take notes of it in my mind, till the majestic pink secured a spot for years to come, so that I never forget it, so that I could use it in a future romantic story I would never let you read. Instead, I tell you about how it’s weird that the folks here don’t use the public transport, because how could they miss out on all the funny things that happen at Greyhound stations, the scary stories Uber drivers tell me, the breathtaking views from the top bunker of the Amtrak train, and then I think, wait, wasn’t it in one of those stranded bus stations, somewhere in Florida, that I saw a mom playing in the empty parking lot with her child? The mother and her little girl, the little girl with the double braids who kept jumping into the puddle on the cracked surface and spraying water all around, and the mother kept scolding her, affectionately, and dragging her back, only for the child to let go and jump into the puddle to giggle again, that I was so taken by the sight and the laughter of the two, especially the little braided girl and the sounds of her laughter, I had to quickly look away and blink my tears off, so that I don’t start thinking about it, about wanting a child, and I am scared to realize every time I do think about it, I think of a home with a running giggling child with you.

But I don’t share that, any of that, not even what I saw, but instead I tell you how public transports in this city are indeed inconvenient and never on schedule, that yes, I think it’s time I learn to drive and start planning for a car, because to me that is the ultimate step towards being practical and serious about life, and that is probably what is left of me to become, and what I never want to become, and did you know it’s not a stereotype but true that everyone here seems to have had some love story take place at some point in their cars, that the song we had hugged to for a whole 4 mins and 46 seconds had the same American romance-in-a-car scene in it, that I play that music video often in memory ever since I came here? And sometimes when I am being a passenger princess and a kind friend is dropping me home, on the nights I sit with one and have the parked car conversation, I look into their eyes and selfishly think of the song and wanting those moments with you. On those nights, I lie in bed later and wonder, so if I do learn it all, this apparent perfect adult life, the practical stuff, learn to drive, learn to clean, stack and put things in order, learn to budget, learn to plan for a future, learn to keep my romance in check, will you then find me compatible enough, or will you find a new excuse? I would not do it for you anyway. I know you are wrong. I have never changed for anybody, but I cannot deny that I do have those fragile moments when I fantasize of ways to win you over again, and I forget them as quickly as they come, and I focus on all the times you hurt me with your words and actions, and even more with your lack of words and failed actions, how easy it has always been for you to move on from things, how you also turned out to be as mechanical as the rest, how often you were surprised by my overwhelming emotions, how you keep denying that was exactly what drew you to me in the initial days.

You were in awe of my romance, of my ability to find the silver beams and golden rays when we walked on cobbled pavements, for I still don’t know which was more movie-like, dancing silly with you at night under the streetlights, or sitting in a park I never learnt the name of, but I do remember you being surprised at my childish mirth on both occasions, stating it aloud with that look in your eyes, so this really is who you are, you really do like all this, you really are different. What did you mean by that? Until that moment, I had only heard this different tag as rejections; I had only heard that I was not pretty enough, or outgoing enough, or simple enough, and those are euphemisms I am using.  I have heard every last insult when it came to them listing what makes me unlovable. If I go by the “too’s” instead, I was always too ugly, too complicated, too weird, too sensitive, too – yes of course – too different. But too romantic? What do I do with that? All of those other “too’s” hurt like anything, gashed deep wounds in me which only healed over time, as I became somebody I wanted to be, and even more, when I first landed in your country of shamrocks and met you a few months afterwards, for I felt like I was given an overnight balm that soothed me of all my bruises, all the “not enough’s” and “too’s,” until came the day you said one as well, and your “too” left in me a hollow I have not been able to fill, in spite of having lived so many other dreams since then.

When exactly did you decide that I was too romantic for you? Because now that I think of it, even when we were supposedly romancing, I was still leaving out details of what I felt, I told you that when I first saw a city bathed in white snow, I was so stunned that I had tears, but I subconsciously skipped the part where I had collected some slush in my palms and tasted it. I also didn’t mention that I liked walking to pubs alone because I enjoyed the live music, like really enjoyed, like enjoyed so much that I did not even need company, even you, and I said that to you so many other times, as part of our banter of being mean to each other, but somehow that is all you registered, that I was capable of being alone, and so I could be easily abandoned, because I knew how to take care of myself anyway, that I did not really need love, and you did not have anything to feel guilty about.

Were you right, then? Were you, you and you who told me I was different, correct?  Until you came along, I believed all that too, that I wanted it but I did not need it, and it did not matter, because I did not believe I deserved it, and then you told me that I deserved all that and more, and you told me you felt addicted to my words, you told me even just a few weeks ago when we reconnected and talked over Messenger for 6 hours that you still felt addicted to my words. Yet, I am more fearful of sharing these words with you than I am with anyone else, because I am scared that you will start feeling sorry for me, and I am angry at the possibility that you will once again get to tell yourself that you were right in saying I am too romantic.  And I think I am finally starting to remember when you made that decision. It was most likely on the night when I texted you to say I had just returned from the most amazing walk in front of my dorm, when a sudden heavy rainfall had splashed over the night’s silence, and that I had stood in the pavement and tilted my head backwards and let it drizzle all over my face, that instead of seeking shelter, I had celebrated the freedom that came with a city so safe.  I typed that story to you in detail, the response to which the next morning was, 4 a.m., are you insane, and no other questions about the raindrops or the winds or the sentence I had ended the text with, the sentence “all of these are so precious! im sooo loving this city and my life here and of course, you hope all of it lasts,” for I should have known it then, I should have skipped this story too, I should have never hit sent, and I should have never assumed that any of it would last, because like you, the storm probably thought it was insane I could love it so much, for who in their right mind liked to walk through storms at night? And like I learnt with you, now when I see a storm, I no longer want to embrace it with the same joy I once used to, because I now know that even the storm, who is not loved by all, or most, or probably none, even the dark, thunderous, ominous storm does not think the romantic in me is worth loving back.