Someone I know (very well) struggles with anxiety. Except it’s not general – it’s exacerbated by relationships – of the romantic kind. It reminds me of me – a very long time ago. Or maybe not so long ago – maybe even now. Sometimes, I think I know myself, but life’s tests make me take a different path than the one I thought I would take.
I must remember,
A boy is not my buoy.
Sorry, I couldn’t resist.
And there I was, months ago, writing about how happy you were. Don’t get me wrong, I wish you no harm. It just stings, believing that it was just “me”. I see now, the same patterns. You say glass pieces, I say eggshells. Tomato, tomato. Potato, potato.
I feel sorry for you, for you’re nothing more than the latest victim. The next heart to be broken. I see through your writing, that your entire life has been sacrificed. Your words don’t speak of anything other than him or the things you do for him, as has been the case for months.
But deep down, a tiny part of me is satisfied.
I was right.
I dream of a bollywood romance, with inevitable family drama, tears and the token melodramatic grandmother screaming “Hai Allah” while feigning a heart attack. Then the families realise that the most important thing is their children’s (or grandchildren’s) happiness and agree. A lavish wedding takes place and the two lovers live happily ever after.
Add in a few songs and dancing in the rain, and that sounds like my dream come true.
Hmm, maybe I do like drama after-all.
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