It was two weeks to go before I moved back home, and it was the first of many times that I felt this. “Discomfort.”
“I won’t be in touch with you, once you’re gone.” You’d say and flash that smile that took away all the hurt from that sentence. That one sentence that killed me every time.
Discomfort was what I felt that day, sitting in your flat, beside you and sharing a drink with your flatmates when one of them asked..
“So what next, once she moves back. What happens to you guys?”
I didn’t have an answer, or maybe I did but remained quiet. “Oh, we’ve talked about it.” You said and looked at me flashing that smile yet again. I nodded.
But did we, really? Did we have a conversation about this? Do you think that maybe it was all in your head? ‘Cause I do not remember talking about whether or not we’d try long distance once I’m gone. I only remember you feeding it to me once in a couple of days through that one sentence of yours. You over used it on me.
Discomfort was what I felt on my last day in that city. Lying on your cot, both of us in opposite directions, looking up at the ceiling.
“So, by not being in touch, you mean this is a break up?” I finally asked after days of processing it in my head.
“I guess so, long distance is not an option for me.” You said wiping off a tear from your eye.
You cried that day. But I wanted you to try so bad and that wasn’t an option for you. I comforted you till you stopped crying.
Discomfort was what I felt when I stared at your number on my dialer for an hour before actually pressing the call button. And then receiving the coldest reply once the call got through. Why I put myself through this embarrassment, I do not know now. But back then, if I could hear your voice through a cold phonecall, then so be it.
Discomfort I felt with every sketch you posted, more often now than before. The talent that I admired and loved immensely before, brought in jealousy now. I left social media and muted you everywhere. It helped me, not seeing your name right there every time I unlocked my phone.
Discomfort was what I felt on finding out that you were moving out too. Not from you though, from a third person, hence the discomfort.
But this “discomfort” I felt with a little less intensity every time. I was getting used to it, to not having you around. I almost stopped trying to stay in touch. My ego was growing back on me.
I kept myself busy, met new people, hung out with old friends. Then came across someone who liked me. I still loved you of course, with all my heart, you can’t stop that feeling. But I couldn’t possibly force you to be with me.
I was drawn to his persistence, this boy. I decided I would tell you and only if you were “comfortable” with it, would I date him. You said my happiness made you happy.
Now, I finally am at comfort. I post a picture with this boy whom I adore. I made sure to give you time though, it was only a month after I told you, that I posted this and yet, you unfollow me.
“Why?” I ask.
“To avoid Discomfort.” You say.
“I understand.” I say, because I do.