I love you.
God I love you.
I love the way you make me laugh, at the most stupid things, in the most inappropriate of times. Or the vibes we share when around other people who cannot see through it. And have whole communications without words.
Or when in the middle of me laughing, I will stop and catch your stare. Serious, and warm. But definitely a stare. Like you just chanced upon a masterpiece.
I love how we will have built conversations from the most mundane of things. And how you notice the smallest details. Like how a conversation made me uncomfortable, and you take time to get back to it and see what you could have done differently.
I love how you kiss me. As if nothing else, nothing else matters. And you affirm me and tell me I am beautiful. That you are lucky to have me. And how you, tender and caring, want to know, every second minute whether am fine.
As if you will change the weather to suit my wants, but you still ask. I totally dig that about you.
I love how you take care of things. Make sure everybody is fine, that they are home safe, especially when you don’t have to.
I love staying with you, anywhere. You almost always feel like home.
Then we have had pain. Even in the midst of all these stars in our path.
The first time you stabbed me was that September in 2011. I had just left my other relationship and was finally ready to date you. And when we talked the night I knew I was ready, I did not see the pain lunging towards me. You said you were concerned, that I was going to cheat on you. Because I had just left my relationship and had been crazy about the ex.
I remember I was in a new bed in a new campus, in our new house. I muffled my tears because I didn’t want to wake my new roommate up. And I had hung up. Every word had felt like this sword you were driving into me, into my heart. You had never had me hung up on you and it made you get upset. I didn’t want you to hear me cry, my dignity was already mopping the floor.
Then after I hung up I had cried. I cried so hard that night. I wondered how someone who knew me so well would be so mistaken about me. And I wondered whether now that I was available I had become less attractive, another person’s old toy you did not want part of. And I didn’t want to talk to you again after that. It hurt too much. Our relationship became stilted after that, we talked, but it was once in a while. And we took some time.
Three years later, in 2014, after I had finished school, come to Nairobi, we started off again. This time there was less drama. And we were at different places in life. I was starting my career while you were clearing school. We had a thing. You would come over, I would cook. We would have a good time, and we would talk, endlessly, watch movies. We hung out with mutual friends. No one knew a thing about what was happening between us. Then one day, I asked that you commit to a relationship. And you jumped ship. You couldn’t do it, you said. It wasn’t the right time. There was too much going on. And this time, I didn’t want to stick around and start rebuilding my heart again. So I asked that we break the situationship off. And we did not really speak for a while. Till January of 2015. Here you said, that you had been seeing other people this while. And I remember being awake as you slept, wondering what it is about me that said, I could be treated that way.
Now you are back, again, three years later. You have a bag full of apologies.
You say you miss your friend, that you realised we had a good thing going. That nobody gets you encouraged like I do. You speak about caring for me, being my man.
But you don’t want hard conversations.
Whenever I bring up your history of hurting me, you say, cant I see the apologies you have made? And you ask why I want you to walk on eggshells.
And now we are here, fighting. Fighting too much to even talk through things.
And now you cannot talk to me. Because you have clumped up. You are convinced somehow, that I am not a big enough person to forgive you. And I am tired of this whole shebang.
And all the fighting we are doing, it doesn’t help me or you. It all hurts me and you too.
You are here, and just like always, you don’t know what you want this time as well.
I guess to you I am a thrill of a chase. Then when the chase dies down, so does your appetite. Someone to keep you happy, sometimes warm your bed, take care of you as you figure things out.
And now that I am tired of being that for you, a high, a temporary place holder as you chase more tail, you don’t want to talk anymore. You say that I intend to keep punishing you for things you have already said you are sorry for. Because to you, saying sorry is a sap that should stitch back together the trust issues you have so intricately created.
As if I should by a magic wand, let all the hurt you have caused fly away, and give you clean slates for which to pour your still undecided self. As if I haven’t nursed wounds from you for months on end. Waking up to oil the wounds, keeping them from the sun, crying in silence at night while they bleed.
I am tired.
I am sorry.
I forgave you. I did.
Take the pain and shove it, you say.
Forgive me because see, I am very sorry.
But the reason am sorry, is because I am not that girl anymore.
It’s not enough anymore for you to come in and leave my life as you please.
It’s not okay to be the one receiving bread crumbs, the girl you have a life with but don’t introduce as yours. The girl you are okay telling she means the world as long as the world doesn’t know.
This post was first published on Naserian’s blog here.