I perfectly remember the very bright day I called his cell phone while walking towards my work building. I waited impatiently for him to pick up. It didn’t rang more than twice.
When he picked up, I started blowing kisses.
He said, laughing; “do you see why I’m head over heels for you? You do this things and I keep falling in love with you.”
And I laughed that laugh that you have when your heart is bursting with joy. My bubbly, tender giving self that was so afraid of heartbreak, it kept shielding itself with silence.
My brain immediately mixes this memory with the one where I called him to ask him to be my Valentine, in the innocent, literal way a third grader asks a friend, and he refused to answer yes. “I don’t want things to get misunderstood”, he said, while we held one of the most complicated relationships I’ve ever known of. I just wanted to have a Valentine.
The weight of the four times he did broke my heart – and the way he managed to make each more painful than the other – still falls on the cloud of those memories.
I wonder vaguely if I had said something or done something different… then again, if he had been mine, he would’ve never left. Four times.