Is it possible to fall in love in three months?
Time is endless, and so is its mysteries.
I remember meeting someone just recently. Oh, I remember exactly everything that happened the day I first met him all the way to the last. I remember every inch and crevice of events and to this day, I never forget them.
Would this mean that I’m in love?
I’ve never forgotten a single thing he said and I remember everything that we ever fought about.
Is this love?
So much happened in those three months that I knew him.
I could tell that at one point, he truly did like me. He truly wanted to be with me, to what extent, I’ll never know to this day but oh, he wanted to be with me and was willing to break rules for it.
And then a fight.
And then, he changed.
I remember telling myself that I should keep seeing him, because otherwise I would regret it for the rest of my life. I remember thinking that he was worth the time, effort and everything else.
I remember putting in all the effort while he sat back and watched.
Five months later, I realized something – I kept seeing him for a completely different reason.
I kept seeing him with hopes that he would fall in love with me and he would come back for me.
I suppose, things backfired.
He used me, of course. Knowing where he stood in my life and the extent of my feelings, he took advantage of that.
In the three months I was with him, he took every opportunity to use every inch of me.
I don’t wish to say any more. He’s past.
But he’s a past I won’t be able to forget.
I won’t be able to look past the flaws he easily pointed out in me. The flat breasts that bossomed over my chest, the lack of height to make up for anything, the inability to “take a joke”.
Every day, I think about my flaws.
Oh, three months did change me.
I hate to love this boy who destroyed everything I was. I feel disgusted with the person I’ve become ever since I met him because strength or not, I find myself comparing other men to him. I wish I could stop loving him as easy as it was to love him.
I wish I could turn back time and not have met him.
But things would have been different if I didn’t.
I would have still been living in black and white, in lieu of my father’s death.
I would have still been in depression.
I would have still been thinking about death.
Yet again, I find myself making excuses for him.
Is this really love, or foolishness?
What can three months do to a person?