Flip Sides
11 July 2014, Friday
Great Love,
Hi, Great Love. I met you today, my Great Love. I’m not sure what to think about our short meeting. It makes me happy, and it makes me sad. I think about that barely ten minutes of seating beside each other, and I remember this metaphor I've read in a 1980’s book series. The metaphor is about a coin – a coin which shines but, once looked upon closely, also has rust. It’s like being optimistic but still skeptical; looking at the minor details instead of the whole picture; being dauntless yet still cautious. That’s what it felt like. I want to be euphoric about about our meeting and our conversation and your eyes and the sound of your laughter, but I can’t. I can’t stop myself from looking for the rust... and damn dog, I found a lot! I found a lot that they
stained my fingers.
But let’s see. I will try to tell you the shiny parts first. What I like about our meeting is the mere idea of us meeting. Finally, after two long years, I get to bear witness to your eyes again, to your radiant smile again, to all the little things I love about you. I like that you waved and waved at me while the escalator took you up. I like that you texted me where the escalator was taking you to. I like that you half-ran to come sit next to me; you looked so cute and weird with your nice bag and regulation uniform. I like that you offered your hand for a shake (always so formal, my Great Love), in which my awkward hormones kicked in and I just touced it lightly. (You have to understand: my palms were sweaty, and it wasn’t because of the building's poor ventilation.) I like that your hand was soft, like a girl’s.
I like that you asked me about Bazooka Rocks, hitting our comfort zone spot on. I love the sound of your laughter. I love the sound of your voice; you sounded so demure and soft, and it made me question why the heck mine sounded like a pitchy, whinny brat’s. I love that you always smiled. I love that you thought I was funny and that you didn’t comment whenever I got the wrong punch lines. I love your eyes; they take me to new places. I am
very much in love with your face; I love that you’re so good-looking it makes my heart cry. I love that you just smiled when you caught me staring at you like a stupid, lovesick slug. I love and am thankful that you let me stare at you for a few seconds. I like your gentle manners. I like that you share stories and details with me even though I didn’t ask for it. I love that you called me how you call me in our messages. We have
personal nicknames, for heaven’s sake! I love everything about you. I’m even
in love with you, you know. But just like the skeptic and cautious person that I am, all the beautiful things just pushed me to go looking for the rust. (Hooray.)
The things I love about you were proven to me in our short, sweet meeting. But the weird thing was, even though my feels were all over the place while I was waiting for you, the moment I laid my eyes on you the feels didn’t
spill all over me. The feelings were there, but with your presence, they should’ve
multiplied. They didn’t. The feels didn’t overwhelm me, my Great Love. Why? I’m guessing it was because I’ve been communicating with you constantly and our texts brought us to another level of friendship, so actually seeing you in person wasn’t a big deal anymore. Of course, I was ecstatic (everything about you makes me ecstatic), but it didn’t feel very
epic for me. I was actually surprised that I didn’t go freakshow on you when we were talking. I was both sad and relieved.
I hate that it didn’t feel so special for me, that it felt as if any other meeting with a platonic friend, not someone who I’ve been yearning for for two years. I hate that we were only given a short amount of time and I didn’t make the most out of it. I hate that we didn’t have a steady flow of conversation, and the things we
did talk about were so shallow even ants wouldn't drown. I realized that you and I, despite our nicknames and secret jokes, will never be that kind of friends who talk about weird, important and philosophical matters. (I know you’re a conversationalist and I know I’m a very opinionated person, so what happened?) I hate our dead air moments. I hate myself for not preventing those dead air moments. I hate that when we talked, we didn’t always keep eye contact. I didn’t like that your keep looking at your phone and that I always averted my eyes. You look at your phone while I stare into nothingness. Huh. That’s a great way to start a conversation. I didn’t like that we talked about other people instead of something that interest us both. I washed my hair thoroughly this morning and used a generous amount of conditioner, and yet you probably didn’t notice or smell it because we didn’t hug. Why didn’t we hug, my Great Love, why? It was probably my fault. You looked like you were ready for a hug, but I didn’t stand up and take you in my arms because I didn’t trust myself to make the best move. I regret that I didn’t hug you, so much that I can still feel the wretchedness.
When you left for your class, I sighed the deepest sigh. I leaned my head on the couch like what they do in movies after surviving something intense or after hearing bad news. I wasn’t sure which my sigh was for. I sighed relief, tension, regrets, yearning, all the feelings that were boiling all over my system. I sighed my decision. I sighed to resignation: I resigned to what I’ve been stupidly holding and keeping for a long time.
It was probably the last time we’ll ever see each other again... and there, my love, you took my damn heart away with you. Fuck you. I
love you.
Maybe I’m making a wrong decision. Maybe tomorrow I will take it back and resume to my usual yearning for you. But I guess I’m letting you go. I just needed to see you to confirm my emotions, to seal the deal, to kiss your shadow goodbye. I am letting you go, even though you’re not aware of my claiming of you. It’s weird: you were never mine but here I am, letting you go, as if that counted for something. But it’s for my sake, and maybe yours, too. Because if I don’t and continue loving you like a sick puppy, I will succumb to the sadness and the lack of your presence, and someday you would find me annoying. I find myself annoying already.
I am letting you go. I still love you, of course. I love you with all my heart. It will be impossible to unlove you, but I’ll try my best to not love you more. Meeting you just proved to me that we’re not compatible, that we’re not for each other, that we live in different worlds. Some cliches for you: 1) there will never be an us, and 2) it’s not you, it’s not me; it’s the both of us. (I can’t understand what I just wrote.)
Whatever happens, you’re still the best crush I’ve ever had. You’re the best guy I fell in love with, and it’s entirely sad because you didn’t like me even a little. You are and will always be the great love my young self had – the first real love, the first lovesickness, the first heartbreak. I love you; you aren’t aware, but you broke my heart anyway. And it’s not your fault. I understand. I completely understand.
So I guess I’d have to call you “Once Great Love” or “Ex Great Love” now?
P.S.: I’ve deleted the thread I saved on my phone of around 230 combined text messages we’ve sent each other in the last fourteen months. I’m moving on. It sucks and it’s painful and I want to kick myself, but I’m moving on. Good bye, my love.
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a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Flip Sides
11 July 2014, Friday
Great Love,
Hi, Great Love. I met you today, my Great Love. I’m not sure what to think about our short meeting. It makes me happy, and it makes me sad. I think about that barely ten minutes of seating beside each other, and I remember this metaphor I've read in a 1980’s book series. The metaphor is about a coin – a coin which shines but, once looked upon closely, also has rust. It’s like being optimistic but still skeptical; looking at the minor details instead of the whole picture; being dauntless yet still cautious. That’s what it felt like. I want to be euphoric about about our meeting and our conversation and your eyes and the sound of your laughter, but I can’t. I can’t stop myself from looking for the rust... and damn dog, I found a lot! I found a lot that they
stained my fingers.
But let’s see. I will try to tell you the shiny parts first. What I like about our meeting is the mere idea of us meeting. Finally, after two long years, I get to bear witness to your eyes again, to your radiant smile again, to all the little things I love about you. I like that you waved and waved at me while the escalator took you up. I like that you texted me where the escalator was taking you to. I like that you half-ran to come sit next to me; you looked so cute and weird with your nice bag and regulation uniform. I like that you offered your hand for a shake (always so formal, my Great Love), in which my awkward hormones kicked in and I just touced it lightly. (You have to understand: my palms were sweaty, and it wasn’t because of the building's poor ventilation.) I like that your hand was soft, like a girl’s.
I like that you asked me about Bazooka Rocks, hitting our comfort zone spot on. I love the sound of your laughter. I love the sound of your voice; you sounded so demure and soft, and it made me question why the heck mine sounded like a pitchy, whinny brat’s. I love that you always smiled. I love that you thought I was funny and that you didn’t comment whenever I got the wrong punch lines. I love your eyes; they take me to new places. I am
very much in love with your face; I love that you’re so good-looking it makes my heart cry. I love that you just smiled when you caught me staring at you like a stupid, lovesick slug. I love and am thankful that you let me stare at you for a few seconds. I like your gentle manners. I like that you share stories and details with me even though I didn’t ask for it. I love that you called me how you call me in our messages. We have
personal nicknames, for heaven’s sake! I love everything about you. I’m even
in love with you, you know. But just like the skeptic and cautious person that I am, all the beautiful things just pushed me to go looking for the rust. (Hooray.)
The things I love about you were proven to me in our short, sweet meeting. But the weird thing was, even though my feels were all over the place while I was waiting for you, the moment I laid my eyes on you the feels didn’t
spill all over me. The feelings were there, but with your presence, they should’ve
multiplied. They didn’t. The feels didn’t overwhelm me, my Great Love. Why? I’m guessing it was because I’ve been communicating with you constantly and our texts brought us to another level of friendship, so actually seeing you in person wasn’t a big deal anymore. Of course, I was ecstatic (everything about you makes me ecstatic), but it didn’t feel very
epic for me. I was actually surprised that I didn’t go freakshow on you when we were talking. I was both sad and relieved.
I hate that it didn’t feel so special for me, that it felt as if any other meeting with a platonic friend, not someone who I’ve been yearning for for two years. I hate that we were only given a short amount of time and I didn’t make the most out of it. I hate that we didn’t have a steady flow of conversation, and the things we
did talk about were so shallow even ants wouldn't drown. I realized that you and I, despite our nicknames and secret jokes, will never be that kind of friends who talk about weird, important and philosophical matters. (I know you’re a conversationalist and I know I’m a very opinionated person, so what happened?) I hate our dead air moments. I hate myself for not preventing those dead air moments. I hate that when we talked, we didn’t always keep eye contact. I didn’t like that your keep looking at your phone and that I always averted my eyes. You look at your phone while I stare into nothingness. Huh. That’s a great way to start a conversation. I didn’t like that we talked about other people instead of something that interest us both. I washed my hair thoroughly this morning and used a generous amount of conditioner, and yet you probably didn’t notice or smell it because we didn’t hug. Why didn’t we hug, my Great Love, why? It was probably my fault. You looked like you were ready for a hug, but I didn’t stand up and take you in my arms because I didn’t trust myself to make the best move. I regret that I didn’t hug you, so much that I can still feel the wretchedness.
When you left for your class, I sighed the deepest sigh. I leaned my head on the couch like what they do in movies after surviving something intense or after hearing bad news. I wasn’t sure which my sigh was for. I sighed relief, tension, regrets, yearning, all the feelings that were boiling all over my system. I sighed my decision. I sighed to resignation: I resigned to what I’ve been stupidly holding and keeping for a long time.
It was probably the last time we’ll ever see each other again... and there, my love, you took my damn heart away with you. Fuck you. I
love you.
Maybe I’m making a wrong decision. Maybe tomorrow I will take it back and resume to my usual yearning for you. But I guess I’m letting you go. I just needed to see you to confirm my emotions, to seal the deal, to kiss your shadow goodbye. I am letting you go, even though you’re not aware of my claiming of you. It’s weird: you were never mine but here I am, letting you go, as if that counted for something. But it’s for my sake, and maybe yours, too. Because if I don’t and continue loving you like a sick puppy, I will succumb to the sadness and the lack of your presence, and someday you would find me annoying. I find myself annoying already.
I am letting you go. I still love you, of course. I love you with all my heart. It will be impossible to unlove you, but I’ll try my best to not love you more. Meeting you just proved to me that we’re not compatible, that we’re not for each other, that we live in different worlds. Some cliches for you: 1) there will never be an us, and 2) it’s not you, it’s not me; it’s the both of us. (I can’t understand what I just wrote.)
Whatever happens, you’re still the best crush I’ve ever had. You’re the best guy I fell in love with, and it’s entirely sad because you didn’t like me even a little. You are and will always be the great love my young self had – the first real love, the first lovesickness, the first heartbreak. I love you; you aren’t aware, but you broke my heart anyway. And it’s not your fault. I understand. I completely understand.
So I guess I’d have to call you “Once Great Love” or “Ex Great Love” now?
P.S.: I’ve deleted the thread I saved on my phone of around 230 combined text messages we’ve sent each other in the last fourteen months. I’m moving on. It sucks and it’s painful and I want to kick myself, but I’m moving on. Good bye, my love.
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a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Profile
Already several months had passed, and I am missing
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry more and more each fleeting day. There are just some things in life that we can never forget – especially that something that had given us knowledge, skills, strong relationships and a second home. I am glad that everything in the magical world is now at peace, since Voldemort (yes, I can now say his name; no need to be afraid) had died. I had secretly admired Tom Marvolo Riddle (Voldemort’s birth name) though, because of his intelligence, passion and love for magic. Wasn’t he very clever to think of and conjure his seven
Horcruxes to preserve his life, or form a clan of
Death Eaters who were very loyal to him and would give up their lives just for him to succeed? Not everybody can acquire that much loyalty from people these days. I do not, however, admire him for the way he had carried out all of his plans. He had a good agenda, his means just weren’t morally right. But he still is one of the darkest wizards of all time… and let’s leave it that way.
Oh, for all those who are baffled of what I’m saying here and who the heck I am, my name is
Christine Faye Ordas, and I am an alumnus of Hogwarts. I came from the bronze-and-blue-clad house of the smart ass witch Rowena Ravenclaw and her dictum
“Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure.” And yes, I know the wonderful Luna Lovegood (she’s such a darling) and Harry Potter’s first crush Cho Chang. I had just left Hogwarts last May. Right now I am trying to pursue a career in magical researches, literature and writing. It’s my dream to inscribe intellectual books, publish and sell them in
Flourish and Blotts for the future Hogwarts students’ use. I am also planning to credibly write for the
Daily Prophet, the magical world’s primary news bulletin. And of course, I will be very much honored to contribute to Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood’s
Quibbler (hence, my interest in magical researches). I have always found the Lovegoods a fascinating family, and I bet working with and for them will be very exciting. Or maybe, in Merlin’s beard’s time, I can write legends and bedtime stories like the famous – and wickedly brilliant – Beedle the Bard.
And that’s how my life goes these days. I am utterly missing my old school, my friends, the Great Hall, the bronze eagle knocker just outside the Ravenclaw common room, Professor Flitwick (the head of our house), Hogsmeade, the Quidditch matches (although I didn’t actually play for the house), the moving portraits, the castle ghosts, the pumpkins on Halloween, the giant pine trees on Christmas, Rubeus Hagrid’s (Hogwarts’ gamekeeper) tea and treacle fudge – even the crabby Argus Filch (Hogwarts’ caretaker) I miss. Maybe I can visit the school grounds sometimes and see how the magical world’s been doing since Voldemort died (I’ve been spending my months in the muggle world, you see). I’ve heard everybody’s been moving on and starting all over again; the ministry is back on work under Kingsley Shacklebolt; and Harry Potter’s scar haven’t been disturbing him since.
All is well, indeed.
And because of that, we should celebrate and drink firewhisky! Oh, I still don’t drink firewhisky; I can take butterbeer or tea or pumpkin juice – just not firewhisky, please.
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