How You’ll Find Out He Isn’t The One

You will not listen until it’s too late.

You’ll meet him at the most random place, at the most random time. You didn’t expect him; you just prayed for him. You wished someone like him would come into your life, and he does, right when you don’t expect it. He will ask you out to coffee, and you will hesitate. You go anyway. He takes you to a nice place, somewhere near you for your convenience. What you don’t expect is he brings his family with him, and you meet them for the first time, totally unprepared and looking very haggard from work. He doesn’t care; he tells you, you look pretty. You will lead him to Starbucks, and he will buy coffee for the both of you: Dark Mocha, his favorite. You ask about his siblings and what University they are in and you watch him in the light and see how beautiful he is; right then, you know he isn’t the one.

You go out with him again, and he takes you to a parking lot. It gives you a thrill, and it becomes your parking lot – the one you share with him. You’ll talk about his past over a couple of smokes, and you’d realize how deep of a person he actually is. You’ll have your first fight over a girl he knows, to which he denied his feelings for you. You’re hurt, but you pretend you’re not, and he makes it up to you the best he can. Your heart will soften. He promises he won’t do it ever again and that he’s sorry that he did. You realize, he isn’t the one.

You write for him. This boy doesn’t read, but he will read all your works about him, because he cherishes it. Through it, he finds out things about you and what you think of him. He loves it. You will fight with him on your first month – you will fight with him a lot – but by this time, you have forgotten what you fought about or if it was even worth it. You will have endless sleepless nights together, on the phone, just talking for hours until the sun comes up and hear him fall asleep on you slowly, his breathing the only thing you hear. You will find it endearing, but you already know, he isn’t the one.

After numerous fights, you break up with him. For good this time. And you don’t expect him to walk away, but he does. You will spend your nights regretting him for all he’s worth and the time you wasted with him when you could’ve been with someone else. You will stalk him and feel bad when you realize he’s moved on without you. You get angry at yourself. And you say you should have listened the first time you said he just wasn’t the one.

You always knew, but didn’t listen. You knew because of the way his eyes sparkled when he first saw you, and you knew it wasn’t supposed to be like that. He wasn’t  supposed to look at you like you were the prize; you were the challenge that he had to win. You knew because the one isn’t supposed to mistreat you the way he does, even with the most minor things. He’s not supposed to be insensitive to how you feel. You knew he wasn’t the one because he falls asleep on you regularly and you let him, but when it comes to you, he gets mad. He was unfair. You knew he wasn’t the one because he made you regret. Happy times were not enough to overpower the bad.

You will wish you can restart your love story all over again. Because the heartbreak is fresh, you will want it to be right this time. You will do everything to make it right. But when you learn to be smart and think for yourself, you wouldn’t want to do it again. You will be happy and contented, and you can safely say that if you were given a chance to meet him again for the very first time, you would walk the fuck away. Because he just wasn’t the one.

To The Idiot Who’ll Love Me Next

I only have two moods: 1) sleep is for the weak and 2) sleep for a week.

You will appreciate the first on nights that you’ve had too much Berocca in the afternoon and we’d stay up until six in the morning, talking about how much you love dogs and how much I love cats. You’ll get annoyed by the second one on nights I’ve had a tough day and knock out the moment I get home.

We will drink coffee in the morning, preferably something light and creamy, and you’d make a face at me as you chug down your dark mocha chip. But you’ll kiss my lips anyway, even if they taste like caramel cream.

I will twist and turn in bed, messing up the blankets, and you’ll laugh at me, listening to me sleep talk. You will find it amusing, mostly because it’s about you and food. Every chance you get, you’d have that urge to push my 1960’s bangs out of my face because it “blocks the view” and you’ll immediately regret asking me to get them. Together, we’ll wait for it to grow out.

I’d talk to you on and on about books, even if you won’t get my references about Why We Broke Up and Looking For Alaska and Pride and Prejudice. You will, however, ask what my favorite song is, and I can’t tell you just one. You’ll learn about He Is We and Regina Spektor and Owl City, and why I love them so much. We’d watch movies together, and you’d be patient with me whenever I hold your hand during the boring parts, or hug you during the scary parts, or whisper questions to you during the exciting part, over-all killing the suspense. You’d be very patient.

This is all very weird to you, but it’s my blanket. It is warm, inviting, familiar. And you’ll wear it around both of us, reveling in it together.

We won’t go to dinner; we never go to dinner. We’d settle with ice cream for me and smokes for you. But when we do, it’s usually with my mother. I would get annoyed by your indecisiveness on whether you want the chicken wings or the salmon, so I’ll order for you. You’ll smile at me apologetically, thankful that I know you like the back of my hand and chose the right thing. My heart will warm at that.

Soon enough, I’ll stop wearing makeup entirely around you. And you won’t even notice because you thought it was natural. It’s not. I’d start wearing shabby clothes, even shabbier than the jeans and t-shirt you’re used to. I will let you play with my hair and touch my shoulders even if I don’t usually let people do that – you’ll understand why when I explain it to you.

We’ll go on Starbucks dates, basketball dates, walking dates. We’ll forget to check our phones and realize only after fourteen missed calls.

Eventually, you’ll discover me. My shape, my rolls, my muffin tops, my waist. You’ll find that comfortable spot on my shoulder where you sleep as we ride in the cab. You’ll enjoy it when I let you lay on my lap and stare up at me as I pepper you with kisses.

You will always let me walk on your right side.

By this time, you’ve realized it. You’ve realized I’m hard to love. You’ll begin knocking on my walls, the ones I’ve built around my head and my heart – even for you. I have created a temporary image for you to believe, but it will all slip away.

As I grow more comfortable with you, start to worry. Not because you’re boring or tedious or anything, but because I’m beginning to feel secure. It is inevitable. I will pull away relentlessly because I am spontaneous and impulsive and run away a lot of times. By this time, you already know this.

I lose all sense of function when I become too secure because all my life, all I’ve known is insecurity. It will feel very stifling. And I will surely mess up. Many, many times.  You’ll be sad and hurt and angry. You will say and do things that will upset me – sometimes because you don’t mean it and sometimes because you do. I will take it graciously.

I am flawed, you know it, though you will feel fed up. Please know that you are flawed also. But it will be too late before you realize that. The footsteps on our hearts will remain, a trace of each other we can never get rid of. But we will both walk away. In the end, like all good things, we are both flawed. And, like all good things, we will fall apart. All things do. That’s just the way life works.