I saw him smile and felt weak. That was the first time I met him.
I met him less than two years ago. We were inseparable in the start. Then, my ego got in the way; I wanted more. He couldn’t care less. He held me at bay. Maybe scared of something intimate. Or was I reading too much into his behaviour? Either way, he didn’t let me get too close. Calls, texts, conversations were always engaging. But never private.
I put some distance between us for good measure. Nothing was enough. My friends told me he was bad for me. But he is not abusive, I defended. He refused to leave my mind and I harboured a secret imagination that I never left his. Sometimes, he would hold me in his gaze for several moments as silence overwhelmed us. The passion was unthinkable. The chemistry, insane. But his movements around me were still guarded; his thoughts closed.
What was it about him that I found attractive? His cold demeanour or his opaque personality? I don’t know.
I felt an urge to be held in his arms. To feel him against me. To hear his heart beat. I wanted to have a love affair worth having. The ones epic novels are made of. I wanted to make love to him, urgently and passionately. I wanted to feel him devour me as he discovered my every contour. I wanted to watch his body move in sync with mine.
But all he did was smile and I crumbled.
The only affair we had was the one in my mind. The only novel ever written was this.