Dear Bad boy alias Good man,
You asked me once, late into the night, what it was that I liked about you. Being more than aware of the fact that I was the one executing the futile chase, I gave your voice a praise with a passing mention to some aspect of your character. What I did not say, I hid well behind insults.
The truth is that I don't know what makes you special. The way you brush your hair with you fingers does help. The fact that you were an interesting aspect of a dreary academic life lured in my interest. You fed me your hellos and bored me with your unending encores of the same message. I complained about their repetition but loved the smile that it brought to my face.
What hooked me in was a mirror image of all that I try hard to hide. You once called yourself a sadist for those who tick you off the wrong way. What I did not mention was how much I loved to see someone getting hurt, after they hurt me. I did not have to try to understand what you where made of. I knew.
Every time you called yourself a bad boy with good man as a postscript, I was laughing on the inside. The bad boy had attracted me. The good man was making it hard to leave.
In these past few days, I could see the frustration on not being liked back fading from sight. Yet the cold air, disarray of raindrops, and the taste of a shared meal lingers. Jealousy still raises it's green head, but it has learnt it's lesson and lowers it too. My body still sings like a finely tuned instrument at your words, but now I can control it.
I have made peace with the fact that this ordinary, uninteresting girl will never hold your interest. The attraction that threatened my sanity has taken a backseat. What is left is an acceptance of what you are to me. It makes me ready to run for my life, yet anchors me in a way nothing ever did before.
I wish I could call you ‘the one that got away’. Yet you stepped into the drawer labelled ‘love that will never be returned’.