The Saturday, The Monday, The Tuesday

Again, not a lot on this one.
Scratch that, I'm condensing a few.

The day after, it was different. The whole world, was different. There was a strange light illuminating the whole of this day which made everything seem a bit glummer, a bit more unreasonable and a bit more out of reach.

I kept watching for you to arrive in the office, seeing as you come in later than I do, as I always do. The only thing I really have to say about that day is: it was hell. Literally, hell. Everything I did, I felt a little less competent. Everything I said, I said with a little less confidence. Every (probably) smile I flashed, was fake. I got so stressed out that day. I don't do this often anymore, but I needed a drink.

The following Monday.

Well, what is there to say, except - it happened again. All of those wonderful things that had happened already. Especially holding you in my arms. Being able to call you 'mine', even if  just for a while.

I looked at you, when it started again, puzzled. "I'm doing what feels right for me." Was your reply to my confused stare. I knew it would be the same thing over again. I knew it wouldn't work. But I wanted you so much. Just to be close to you. To let 'what felt right' happen.

The day after.

Guess what happened? All over again. All the pain. all the anger. All the jealousy. Probably more this time. I don't know. I have no idea how to measure these things.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

I still don't know what to do.

I still don't know 'what feels right.'


I still don't know, if I can give up so easily.
I do know, that if I don't, I will only hurt myself. That everything that happens after is my own fault.
I just don't know that I can.

The Friday

There isn't a lot to say about this, but I believe it warrants its own post.

The Friday of the next week. We were talking on the phone. You told me how you felt for me. I knew that. I hoped you knew how I felt about you. The feelings were mutual, we both knew that. Even though neither of us had said it, not really. We kept going in circles - you saying something about how you felt for me, me saying how that must say something to you, and you replying with something along the lines of "I know that, but I'm not leaving him."


In the end, I asked you plain and simple "Do you want me to just butt out?" You seemed to have no idea at first, but eventually came to the decision that it would be best. A clean cut. A quick blow. I was left winded to say the least. I know you could tell. Even thinking about it now brings back those primal emotions - jealousy, anger and the feeling of being lost. Or of loosing.

You told me to shout at you, to tell you all sorts of nasty things. Anything to make me feel better. I don't see where you got the notion  that belittling you would make me feel any better about the whole thing. I did take your offer of doing anything that would make me feel better. "I love you". I needed to say it. I didn't have the courage. I texted you it. On top of that, I used a codeword for it. You sent me back the same thing. I was left, if I say the least, a little confused.

I love you


Words I was scared to say to you then, and still am now.

The Sunday

Well, all I can say is as follows:

What a day.

It started, as most things in this course of events (at least until this point) seem to, on a Saturday. In 'our place'. Well, to all effects it's really actually 'your place', which is a minor technicality, as you opened it up to me. You opened up your own private little world, let me in, and didn't once manage to make me feel as though I did not belong. "I am no stranger here" is one of many thoughts I have had on that particular subject, but I digress.

We were sitting in the 'normal' end this time. It was the time I bought you lunch, as you had bought me mine. I didn't have the money (I think I was around 30p short) for your drink, so you bought that (I still owe you a milkshake). We were talking, and I mentioned something from Star Wars. You looked at me a bit funny. "I've never seen them" you told me. I almost choked (metaphorically, of course). Something close to "should I say it?" rushed through my mind, but even before I had time to contemplate this my mouth was moving and the words "Well, what are you doing tomorrow?" were being released, along with a sly grin and a confident stare. I just knew that I could be. Almost to my surprise you said "Nothing". We made the plans there and then. I would meet you at the cinema in town, and we would walk back to your place.

I got my bus on time (it was early). I did, however, stop for coffee and a bite to eat, so I was a little late (I'm sorry). I met you as we had planned. As we walked back, I discovered that you play(ed) football. We discussed a few sports on the way, including only the best (rugby of course) and hockey. We arrived at your house. Your folks were out. You invited me upstairs. We sat on your bed, cuddled together. We looked through an advertisement leaflet for a company which sells (and makes) handmade bathroom products. We talked about all sorts, mainly about nothing. Your mother returned home, and I met her. I was invited to stay for dinner.

We exchanged pecks. Cheek, forehead, neck. It felt so right. Without trying to be too cheesy, that is. I felt so, alive. I asked if would be okay to go for a smoke in your garden, given circumstances. You said you thought it would be fine, but that you had to check with you mum. We sat, still talking about relatively nothing. Your little sister sat with us, out of the way of the smoke of course. After that, it was time for dinner. Chicken goujons. Peas. Corn. Carrots. Potatoes. Delicious white chocolate cheesecake.

We returned upstairs. More cuddles. More pecks. Full-on kisses. Everything, that given the fact you were attached, we shouldn't have done. Lying in my arms, you looked to me and said "That was fun. What's worse is, I want to do it again." You can probably imagine what is going through my head at this point, and I'll be honest, the fact that you have a boyfriend was not a thought which I had even considered to pursue. We talked for a little while afterwards, until I had to go. I had arranged to meet my lift in town, so you walked me as far as the police station so I could find my way. Then, I waited with you, so you weren't alone until your father picked you up. 

The only thought running through my mind at that point in time was the image of me and you together. Cuddled up. You in my arms. It made me insanely happy. For days. Until I realised that mine were not the only arms. It didn't bother me as much as I thought it would, but it certainly made me feel uncomfortable.

It was after this that we started talking on the phone almost every single night, for hours on end. 

The Meantime

It wasn't long after that that I met your boyfriend. I have to say, he really was a nice guy. I don't know why I sound so surprised. It was after work one day. He swings by to pick you up sometimes. "That's sweet" I thought. He is friendly, caring. Pretty much what anyone would want from their partner.

We had lunch together quite a few times. That week it was raining, I was smoking, so you waited with me before we went inside. That was fun. I don't know about you, but I felt like a child. All huddled up under the canopy, looking out into the rain with you.

There is one of our lunchtimes that I remember so very well. Well, I say that. I think it was the time you insisted on buying me lunch. However I know it was the time we sat at the other end of the place. Because the seats at the 'usual' end were all taken. You told me what had happened, what some sick person whom I haven't even given the courtesy of remembering their name. Not long before your sixteenth birthday. It disgusted me, I almost convulsed.

I have to point out, at the time I was unsure why you were telling me all this. As I was reassuring you, telling you it wasn't your fault, all I could think was "Damn, why do I feel so disgusted by this? Well, that's a given. But why, then, do I feel like I should do something about it? You have a boyfriend." It was as I was saying this to myself, that you gave me the answer to my first question. Not that I didn't know it already. Maybe I just wanted to ignore it. I have no idea for who's good though. "You know, you have a way of making people feel at ease around you". Well, that confirmed what I thought.

You told me many things, that you thought you probably shouldn't have let slip. Nonetheless, I could tell that by now, you thought at least, that there wasn't a lot of point in not saying them. We talked more, you told me how you felt guys were like buses (wait around an age for one, and a few appear at once), asked me my opinion. I told you to go with whatever feels right for you. Do what makes you happy. If you get off a bus, you may never be able to get back on. But if you don't get on the other, you never know where it may take you. 

Thus what I believe you named the 'Buses scenario' was born.

And that is what happened in The Meantime.

The Beginning

When and how we met escapes me. I don't know the date, nor do I recall the circumstances. I know, of course that it was at work. I think you were helping me to find my feet in the new department. Not that it was a big deal to me, but hey, who doesn't love the attention?


It was that day, or soon after (I wish I could remember, I feel like I'm insulting you. It really isn't like that) we had lunch together. As we left, I asked would I see you upstairs, you replied, "I go out for lunch" so "I'll meet you outside" is what I decided.


We walked along the heaving high street, the sun dazzling. Barley able to keep up, I felt like a small child, following you along. We got half way and the chatter started. Menial words, but with a smile.


We arrived at the place you said you have lunch. I had almost missed it, it was barley visible from the street. A subterranean nook. Low ceilings. Canteen style service. A really lovely little place. As we walk along, they take your order. I say "I'm not having anything, I have no cash" (we have those cashless cards for work). What I'm thinking is *I'm pretty skint.*


Your order came. Cheese toastie, on white. With a banana milkshake. "It's what I always have. Sometimes I have lasagne." It looked delicious. Fresh, and melty.


I asked why you came here for your lunch. "It's my little place. I come here to escape and be alone." "I'm sorry." I say "I'll leave if you want." You told me not to be so silly. We laughed. We talked about all sorts. Work, Being treated as a four year old. And your boyfriend. He sounded like a nice guy.


Thus concludes The Beginning.