Monday: You glanced my way.
You were five tables away. By this time, you’ve been staring at your computer screen for 5 hours already. You were measuring or illustrating or dozing off, but I’m pretty sure you looked over thrice. You told me you distinctly remember me running my hands through my hair, and biting my fingernails. You said I had raised my eyebrow and pouted my lips so many times, as I angrily typed, because I was having a major writer’s block.
Tuesday: You said hi.
You were scribbling and crumpling and throwing. You stood up twice only to sit down again. You were so nervous; I swear, how you fidgeted was hilarious. You went out only to come back with unopened chocolates — hiding it so secretively under your unzipped jacket. You gestured the “no food allowed” sign under the “no talking” sign, and I let out a soft giggle. I had to shush you and remind you that we weren’t allowed to talk or make any noise. And from four tables away, you were offering me my favorite chocolate in the world.
Wednesday: You lent me your jacket cause you noticed I was cold.
Winter’s crazy. You can feel the wind pierce your bones. How was I to focus on articles due that same day? But you just had to play hero that day, didn’t you? You left your jacket on my desk as you passed by and you sat three tables away. How sweet! You remember leaving a note inside the pocket saying, “Let’s walk if the sun comes out. But you can keep the jacket. I know you like jersey.” I’m sure my face flushed — whether it was the cold outside or the heat inside, I wasn’t so sure anymore.
Thursday: You said I had to stop correcting your grammar.
I had to remind you that “their” and “there” was different. And you laughed at how anal I was about everything. I had to stop myself from laughing or else we’d both get kicked out. You sent another paper airplane from two tables away indicating the revision for your grammatical error. And of course the note made me smile more when it finally said, “I think there is a future for us. I’ll humbly accept your correction everyday.” You looked like trouble — a very good-looking trouble at that. But nonetheless, I let you sit beside me that day on.
Friday: You labeled that black long-sleeved top your favorite.
I came back from my (almost) one-month trip. I got you this gift, and you sat next to me and gave me hugs and kisses on my cheek. You really liked me; you always emphasized “really”. Obviously, I didn’t hate you at all. You really missed me; and before I could say anything, you kissed me for the first time. Obviously, I was attached to you already.
Saturday: I thought I was going mental.
You had vanished, just like that. Suddenly, you weren’t just ready. Suddenly, a relationship had been too much. Suddenly, I was too much? I don’t know. Where did I go wrong? What did I do wrong? Was I just wrong? You changed, you know. You were different from how I knew you — unless you’re just that good.
Sunday: I was still in love.
I heard there was this girl — 4 years younger than you. I’m laughing about it now, don’t worry. I’m not affected anymore. You go and do you. People have been telling me to get over you, and I know I am! I know I am! Stop assuming, you idiot-ass-I-can’t-believe-I’m-still-here-why-do-you-do-this-to-me-I-can’t-possibly-have-feelings-still-I’m-going-to-murder-you. Yeah, they’re probably right.
You’re crazy. I hate you.
I’m crazy. I’m stupid. I hate me.