nayantacious-blog

[nayantacious-blog]

On accidents

I texted you on Friday night. On accident, only I don’t really believe in accidents. I very foolishly believe these little actions have been fated. Under normal circumstances, I try and find the connections that exist invisibly.

With you, I search with a fevered imagination. With you, it’s always different. With you, I fear, is what should have been but won’t be.

I was sitting on my floor as my fingers moved faster than my neurons willed them to, and I saw the words moving on the screen towards you. I caught my breath and stifled a scream. It was too late, I saw the delivered notification. My arbitrary words had moved across the world and landed.

I docked my phone and hid under my covers. Purposely, uncomfortably, deliberately I turned away from my nightstand and willed myself to sleep.

My heart was pounding with anxiety. I tossed and turned, and the adrenaline pumping caught up with me. I started dreaming, and as predicted, there you were. Though I couldn’t see your face, there you were. Invading my every nerve and thought. I was physically reacting to you again. I haven’t felt that much physical anguish in quite a long time, and it was painful. My body ached.

Somehow I let hours go by before getting out of bed. I sat up, and grabbed my phone. I talked myself out of it so many times. But it didn’t matter, because regardless of whether you responded or not, I still couldn’t manage to let go and sleep. And there among the other texts from family and friends were yours. I read the others before getting to yours. All of them filled with encouragement and love for the race I was to run on Saturday morning.

I took a deep breath, and read yours.

“Who is this?”

“I lost my phone and #’s, but I recognize yours.”

“I checked my other phone. Hi N--. You are so mysterious. Hope you’re doing well. Stay safe.”

If it had ended with you not knowing who I was, I’d have been ok. I’d have finally started being angry at you, like everyone promises me will happen. I could have been angry at you not staying true to your words. You promised me you wouldn’t ever lose my number. I wanted to let that spiral into finally getting over you.

And then I realized it, I don’t think I can ever get over you. Maybe that’s exactly why your words, however small, still hold such weight. That is why I find myself thinking about you far more than I ought to. And especially why I am so obsessed with trying to remember your face.

I almost texted you a few weeks ago. With my elephantine memory, I’ve embedded June 21st into my insides, and I spent the entire day thinking about you. I’d like to think that you felt it. That you felt me. I typed the words into the screen and didn’t hit send.

“Remember happiness.”

I’m glad I didn’t.  I’d rather believe I was meant to exchange words because a butterfly flapped it’s wings somewhere. I’d rather believe this pull isn’t of my own volition. It isn’t, my moral compass wouldn’t let me, but I find it happening anyway.

Because then it would mean that we’re still meant to be, right? Right?

[nayantacious-blog]

On distance

The story of how we met will always remain a memory that makes me smile. Despite what we've been through, I think about that night and my knees wobble. It's like I defrosted too quickly and my legs melted. It was a waning late summer evening, and the desert air was dry and arid. G, K, and I were sitting on those wrought iron chairs outside the old Starbucks at the plaza. I kept shifting because the chairs were uncomfortable, but it was probably because my body knew something momentous was looming.

You.

We heard you long before you made yourselves known. My irritation began then- with the first chair you overturned on the far side of the tables. Attempting to ignore the scene you were causing, you took me by surprise when I looked up to see you standing there.

A was talking, but I felt your eyes on me. You ignored everyone else, and kept your gaze on me. I shifted in my seat.

"Hi, my friend and I are trying to take a poll, would you mind helping?" A asked us.

Refusing to engage, I sat there with my arms crossed.

"Umm, ok" replied K.

"We were just wondering how you were planning on voting for Prop 202."

We continued staring at each other.

"There isn't a Prop 202" said G.

"Oh, yeah there is. It makes polygamy legal in California" said A.

"What?" I broke my silence.

"Yeah, so I got all these girls pregnant and rather than pay child support, if I marry them all then I don't have to pay anything." A responded bravely.

Both G and K looked at me and then back at A.

"Yeah, so you're clearly joking but you've lost her." 

And that's when you sat down next to me and it all began.

"Oh no. Don't' be mad, we were just joking."

I looked at K, and shook my head.

"No, no, please don't be mad!"

A chimed in by introducing himself, and you. Knowing I wouldn't extend the same courtesy, K did the honors. 

"I'm K, this is G, and the one you both need to win over is T."

"You're name's not T. You look south Indian, it's got to be something else." 

I turned to face you, stunned.

"What did you just say?"

"Sorry, I just meant that T is a very north Indian name, and you don't look like you're from there."

"Are you serious? How on earth could you know that?" 

He was right, but I wasn't ready. Not just yet.

"Sorry, am I wrong?"

I could feel G and K's eyes boring into me. 

"It's N."

"See, I knew it." 

You pronounced my name correctly. Proudly.

I could feel my face and body easing. I felt K grab my knee under the table and give it a reassuring squeeze. 

And that was it. 

Though all five of us were sitting at that table, somehow it was just you and me. Our knees turned towards each other at the corner of the table and a bubble formed around us. It was just us.

Neither of us could admit it then, maybe because we couldn't acknowledge it as what it was, but that night changed every one that followed. 

We planted the seeds that would bloom into something at once beautiful and damaging. In our innocence we couldn't have possibly known.

The night wore on, and we sat there, unmoving, until the lights started to dim until they died completely. It was almost 1am, and I knew our time was ending. 

"So, I guess I'll see you around?"

"Yeah, K, and I are usually here every night."

"I'm really glad we met."

I couldn't respond. I smiled.

We parted ways, and I thought about how I'd probably never see you again. Passing it as one of those cruel things about life. I tried valiantly to hold onto the memory of that night. It was too big to forget, it was too big to lose.

I kept myself awake that night trying to recall every single detail. I like to think I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

I spent the next few nights at Starbucks with K like normal, and pretended to not search for you when I walked back into the store to buy more pastries than I knew what to do with. Ironically, veering away from our routine would be what lead me to a second encounter with you.

Driving back from buying greasy fast food that only seems viable in the middle of the night, we saw A running between two corners. The war had just begun, and people still had opinions that needed to be declared in loud and volatile ways. Anti war on one side, pro on the other, and A holding an 8.5 by 11 sheet of paper with the word 'neutral' scrawled in sharpie, running in between anytime the light changed. He got more honks than anyone else.

Without me uttering a word, K pulled into the parking lot and we walked over to the small crowd that had gathered to witness this. We stood there, watching him gain more honks, infuriating the actual protestors. 

I knew you had to be near, but I couldn’t bring myself to look for you. Nervous that you might not be there, I distracted myself with the small groups of people milling about. Between the spurts of honks, I heard snatches of conversations. Dissenting opinions and otherwise tensed the air. I felt the anxiety I couldn’t name.

Scanning the crowd, my eyes landed on yours. You were staring at me, and I wondered if you’d noticed me searching for you. I saw you smile, and I bit my lower lip in the last vestiges of teenage self-mutilation. I stood there, unable to move, and watched you weave thru people to get to me.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“A is gaining quite a following, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.” You paused, and moved yourself to my left. “I’ve been hoping to run into you again.”

“You have?”

“Yeah. I’m glad I get to see you.”

I bit my lip and looked up at you. There was so much I wanted to say, but nervousness stopped me.

“How have you been?” I replied.

“Good. Can’t complain.”

“Good. Whose idea was it to have A run around like this?”

“His. He’s just making his opinion known.”

“Clearly!”

I remember feeling so contented to just stand there, our shoulders touching, backs of our fingers grazing with each breath and shift of step. Throw your arm around me, my insides screamed. I don’t know how much time passed until I saw K’s face on the other side of the plaza. He was motioning back to campus with his duty phone, we needed to leave. Ah, the unpredictableness of working in housing. I nodded in acknowledgement.

“I have to go.” I said, facing you.

“No.”

I bit my lip.

“Stay. Don’t go.”

“I want to, but I gotta go.”

I watched you take my right hand, slowly and deliberately, and place it on your chest. Over your heart.

“Please don’t go.”

I leaned in, and rest my head on you.

“I’ll see you soon” I whispered.

Keeping my hand on you, you did what I wanted- you threw your arm around me. And standing there, in the middle of the night, We had our first hug.

I pulled myself away from you, and walked towards the parking lot. I didn’t have to turn around to know that you stood there, unmoving, eyes focused on me walking away. But I did anyway. I turned around, and took my steps backwards, our eyes locked.

I realized the irony, even then, that we were taking steps towards one another as you watched me walking away. Little did I know, that my heading backward would come back to haunt me years later.

Space and motion came to play such an integral part in who we became. Walking away from you brought me to you. You placed a state between us, and it wedged us apart. I placed a country between us, and somehow it got us closer. Ultimately, none of it was enough to make your words true.

[nayantacious-blog]

On it

It happens in fits and spurts. It happens unexpectedly, as these things are wont to do. That unnamable feeling of sadness, and dread, and anxiety, and hopelessness that comes with heartbreak. 

What do you call it? 

This thing that latches onto your insides and makes you feel hollow. The entity that creates a weight on your chest so that every breath is painful. The one that makes itself known by bursting suddenly inside of you and staining everything with its pallor. The subtle physical ailments that make themselves known arbitrarily as you're busy trying to distract yourself from the sickness in your heart.

What is it? 

*

It happened when I heard my father on the phone. I heard him say "we didn't know" and I slid off the couch and cut my shin on the coffee table. The room spun, and my head bobbed back. I fell into the space between the sofa and the table. In between the soft and the hard. He rushed over, cordless phone still in his hand, and pulled me up. My eyes were open, but I was gone. In between fits of sobs, I opened my eyes and was laying in my parents bed, on Mum's side. She left a few days before to see her Father during his last days, but I could still smell her on the pillow. I can't remember much of the next few days, and I certainly can't remember the trip to India. It felt as though I closed my eyes, and opened them as the car pulled up the house. I ran into house and into Avva's arms. I sobbed into her chest, and for the first time, she couldn't comfort me. Her heart was aching too, and with the ignorance of age, I expected her to heal mine. I was surrounded by family, but could find nothing to anchor me to them. I tried to distract myself with being there, but would find patches of the day to just lay and cry. The man who taught me my first lessons, whose lap I sat on as he attempted to work, the same man who let me pretend to drive the car, the one who raised me. How do I mourn him? How do I say goodbye?

*

It happened in the bathroom tucked away in the basement of East-West in West Hollywood. I stood at the faucet, water running, staring at your words on the phone. The sheer possibility of a life circling down the drain. For the span of a day, my life lay before me like I had dreamt it would. And in the sweetest of ways, it included you, and suddenly everything made sense. A country needed to lay between our lives for us to find our way back to each other. It was fated after all. 

"I can't. My heart belongs to someone else."

I don't remember how long I stood there, but the next moment of awareness found me standing in the stairwell. My fingers were grasping the wall to keep myself from tumbling back down. K appeared and saw me with tears in my eyes. He came down, and walked me back to our table. And there in his arms, I unleashed it all. I felt a pain I had never felt before, and have yet to feel again, but nothing could stop me from being destructive. I walked around Sunset boulevard, breaking glass bottles discarded on the sidewalks. Fortuitously, they kept showing up every few steps I took, and with all the energy I could muster, I shattered them against walls. I couldn't understand what was happening. I couldn't understand how I could feel so much pain and be so angry- all at the same time. I've managed to feel one or the other, but never together. Feeling such pain terrified me. I couldn't make sense of it all. Had I made it up? Had I made up your words? Why did you say it if you couldn't mean it? My destiny included you- you who loved words more than their meanings. 

*

It happened as summer was peaking its head, and I was planning a much needed sojourn home. I had spent the last three months anxiously awaiting him. In the span of three days, I went from the happiest, to the saddest, to the most devastated I had been in years. He, who I had met in the most arbitrary of ways, but also in the most simplest of ways.

"Is this seat taken?"

Those four words were all it took for him to enter my life. And suddenly I felt myself differently. Even on that night, sitting at Garage, and fancying myself to be older, and more sophisticated than my 22 years would allow. How could I be so naive, when we met listening to jazz? How could I be so young, when a man spent the evening sitting by my side? I wasn't. I wasn't up until I found myself in his hotel room, and I panicked. Suddenly, my youngness made itself clear but that didn't stop this path we were on. Six years later, we found ourselves on that same path, the one we forged all those years ago. It was the same dance, and we knew the moves, we'd had plenty of practice. I sat across from him and was able to see myself the way he saw me. And he remarked at how mature I was now, and I saw it, because I was. I held myself differently, he said. I did. I had grown, and it wasn't until he said it that I could realize it.

And then he held my hand, and my knees became weak. This simple, affectionate act was all it took for me to unravel. I found myself upstairs, in his room, and true to my form, I ran out. Her presence made itself known, and to physically be around him made me ache. He, who had held such promise for me. He, who I had spent so many nights dreaming of. He, who was meant to swoop in and change everything again.

And true to his form, he did change everything. It didn't matter though, because even then I knew that our fates were meant to cross. 

*

It happened when I walked down your street and looked up at your building. Luckily, your windows faced the opposite side so I was spared a serendipitous sighting. It happened the worst when I stood on the corner where you kissed me for the first time. Remember? We had walked up the eight blocks to your street, arm in arm, bodies connected, and I took a few more steps not realizing you had stopped. You pulled me back towards you, and we kissed. I threw my arms around you, and sighed. Standing under the streetlight with the snow falling around us, just enough to make itself known, it didn't stick around. It was utterly perfect. As I stood there, waiting for the light to change, all I could think of was your arms around me. My thoughts floated back to those initial first encounters that were so void of awkwardness or nervousness, when all we saw was a kindred connection to the other. Those first nights that found us talking over each other with excitement at the prospect of this new and important person becoming a someone. And you did, you became a someone to me. How each instance lasted longer than the previous one, and I found myself waking up next to you. We shared those intimacies that come with time rather quickly, and with them came the feelings. They bounded in and latched us together. Your presence in my life came at a time ripe with necessity. And as I face the Spring without you, I worry that the need will return.

[nayantacious-blog]

On tonight

I was swaying- eyes closed, and thinking of you- in my kitchen to M. Ward when I heard the buzzer. Remember Valentine's Day? When you made me dinner and we slid around your kitchen listening to him. I swoon when I think of that night, but here we are two months later. Doing it again, letting each other in. I buzzed you in, and ran into the hallway. I couldn't wait. I stood at the top of landing, and saw your head bobbing up the stairs. You turned the corner, your face shielded by the irises in your hands. 

"A!" I squealed.

You tilted your head to the right and smiled.

"Hi" you said.

"Hi, you."

We walked the hallway to my apartment with my arm looped through yours. Like always. My heart skips a beat when I think of how far we've come. We've come to a place where we have rhythms. When we know how how to adjust ourselves for how the other moves. It's familiarity.

"Welcome. Be it ever so humble." I said, with my back to the front door.

You kissed me in my short hallway, and my weird peephole that juts out, pushed my head towards yours. See, even my walls want us to kiss.

I took your coat, and you walked into the apartment. I stood you in the middle of the living room and asked you if you wanted a tour.

"Of course!" You replied.

"Turn around. Ok, that's it!" I laughed. My tiny studio could have fit on one of your floors.

"Here, give me your stuff." I took your bag, and set it on my desk in my make-shift study. You followed me and started asking about the pictures lining the walls. And you patiently listened as I explained who each person is, and their intricate relationship to me. You aww-ed, and coo-ed at my baby pictures, as we stood there, you with your palm was clasping my neck, and me with my arm around your waist. I rested my head on your shoulder, and you sighed.

"Hungry?" I broke the silence.

"Yes! Something smells so delicious!"

"Aww, ok, good! Let's go eat." 

We walked, arm in arm, the 7 steps to the kitchen.

"Wine?" I asked.

"Yes, please."

I had you open up the bottle of Sancerre that was chilling in the fridge, as I put the flowers in water. 

"These are just lovely, thank you." 

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

And we sat down to eat at my small dining table. 

"Bon appétit, my dear." You have uttered these four small words to me during every meal we have ever shared. I was beaming as we clinked glasses.

I waited to watch you take your first bites before taking my own. I was nervous in my culinary abilities in a way I had never been before. 

I wanted this meal to be perfect.

In our natural rhythm, we ate and spoke in turns. Me asking you about your day, you asking me about the paintings on my walls. Me asking you about your music, you asking me how I prepared the spinach. Me asking you about the article I sent you, you asking me about my day.

"You outdid yourself. Everything is just delicious!"

"Aww. I'm so glad. And save room for dessert!"

"You made dessert?"

"I did, and it's a surprise!"

I got up to clear our plates, and you grabbed them from me and took them to the sink.

"A, please leave it."

"Are you kidding? You made this amazing meal, the least I could do is dishes!"

Kiss.

"Ok, let me get dessert started."

"Started?! What did you make?"

i winked at you as I pulled out the choux from the fridge, and the ice-cream from the freezer.

"Are you serious?"

Kiss.

I put the chocolate to melt, as I set about preparing the profiteroles. I stood there stirring the chocolate, and watching you wash the dishes.

It felt so good to be doing these things together. I liked seeing you in my apartment. I liked you making yourself comfortable in my space. 

I wanted you to belong here. WIth me.

We sat on my couch, and ate off one plate. I had my leg draped over your knee. Your arm was on my thigh. I liked how physical we were. It's become such a source of comfort.

I put the plate on the floor, and rested my head on your shoulder.

"I'm so glad you're here. I really like having you here."

Kiss.

"Me too. Thank you for making such a lovely dinner. I can't believe you made profiteroles."

"You know, I started googling right after Valentine's day when you told me."

Kiss.

"You brought your toothbrush, right?"

Kiss.

***

I'm sitting on my bed, laptop warming the tops of my thighs, and a really shitty movie numbing the silence. The main characters name is Aram, which with the speed they pronounce it, sounds way too close to yours. Your name which I loved saying out loud, your name that showed up randomly to serve as the signs that I obsessively search for, and your name which no longer belongs in my vernacular.

You are supposed to be here right now. WIth me. 

The plans I constructed in my head on the bus ride back from DC last Sunday night have since disappeared. And they took you with them.

My week was planned and built around what was supposed to be right now. I shifted around other priorities for you, for us. I stayed at work longer than I needed to because I wanted to clean my already spotless apartment one more time on Friday afternoon. 

I made two to-do lists: one for the tasks, you know, take out the recycling, put new sheets on the bed, dust, etc. All the exhausting realities of domestic responsibility. The second for the groceries I would need to venture to Jackson Heights to buy. The produce and spices I should be more familiar with. And because of the importance I placed on this, I practiced making the choux for the profiteroles. I called my Aunt in California having her re-walk me through the recipe to make saag paneer. I wanted to have a perfect dinner tonight. Being on this side of it all, the only thing that would have made the night perfect was to have you here.

Instead, I am sitting on my bed, alone and lonely for you. The choux still sitting in the fridge, unused and uneaten. My friends take turns calling to check up on me; inviting me to come over and spend the night rather than sit in silence. 

I can't do it. My heart feels too heavy. I feel hollow. All I can manage to do is think of you, and I have to stop myself from texting you like I'm used to doing.

"Right now." I would text anytime I thought of you. I can scroll through pages of texts and count dozens of "right nows." I do, I read and reread every single email and text we exchanged. 

All I want to do is go back to the last time I saw you. When we were together, when we existed as a we. 

I want to say all the things I didn't say then. I want to say all the things that are making me ache.

I have been happy in a way that I haven't been in years, and it's because of you.

I rediscovered my joy of writing, and it's because of your encouragement.

I slept really soundly with you, and it's because of how comfortable you made me feel.

I shared deep vaulted secrets with you, and it's because of how safe i felt with you.

I really liked kissing you.

I am going to miss you fiercely.

You said that you wanted me in your life. I hope you mean it, because i can't imagine my life without you in it.

[nayantacious-blog]

On anchors

The past 48 hours have pulsed with emotions. I am feeling unmoored. Out at sea.

I started Friday by catching up with an old friend. I met his new man, and saw him happy. We shared a meal, we shared our lives, we recounted, and revealed new secrets to be kept safe. 

I was overcome with longing for the family and friends separated by countries and continents.

I walked blocks and blocks of my beautiful city and sat on the wall at the Guggenheim. Tourist families made their way around me speaking languages I can't understand. I observed and made up stories about them. I met up with A, and we made our way through the curved walls to see all 120 photographs that young Francesca Woodman took before taking her own life.

I was overcome with the sheer amount of beauty that is created by people every single day, and the decisions that I've made and unmade to get me to 29.

We walked through the park and found a patch of sunlight in front of Turtle Pond. We watched two little boys- one slightly bigger and braver, the other slightly smaller and cautious- revel in their curious independence by leaping off rocks resting low on the ground. One was brimming with confidence, and the other relied on his fathers arms, but both palpitated with the ignorant innocence that only the young can possess.

I was overcome with the possibility that exists in all of us. Even now. Especially now.

Sitting on cold marble, with a fountain coming to life at our backs, under the brightest and fullest waning moon, a good man and I opened up and forged new (albeit, uncomfortable) ground. 

I was overcome with the joy and responsibility that is realized when a person becomes a someone. A someone who you are fond of and care about.

I awoke to sunlight and concerned texts from people who managed to feel the dissonance I couldn't yet name. My pantheon of love and strength exists continuously, even when I cannot.

I was overcome with the love in my life.

I learned that a dear friend of mine lost a piece of her heart. Someone near and dear to her. She lost a constant and stable source of love, the kind that can only exist within the confines of family. And was too far away when all I wanted was to hold her.

I was overcome with the ache in my heart for my darling girl.

Where is my anchor? How do I make it back? 

[nayantacious-blog]

On her and him

I’m sitting at the Starbucks at Astor place, next to a couple who are clearly on a first date. Upon first glance, there isn’t anything extraordinary about them; they are average looking twenty-somethings in a room and neighborhood and city full of the same, but there’s an energy emanating from the two of them. They are both brimming with nervous excitement and it’s palpable. She’s curvy and dark with jet black hair that falls in waves on her back and shoulders. He’s tall with blonde hair and blue eyes behind thick tortoise frames. Though they won’t admit to each other yet, both have already made up their minds about the other. Each seeing glimpses of themselves reflected in the other. Already, I’m rooting for them.

They are both talking too fast and too much, excited to share anecdotes and stories. And then they both fall silent when they realize they’re talking over one another. They smile these huge grins when they try and resume, only to find that they’re doing it again. She mentions a favorite book from her childhood, and finds that it’s one of his as well. He explains his job, and she listens intently, wanting to engage further, but waiting to keep from interrupting him. In their nervousness, she is shredding her napkin to pieces, and he plays with the remnants. Already, they’re connecting.

Now they’re getting ready to leave, and there’s something so protective in the way he behaves towards her as they’re departing. He’s clearing the table, holding the door, and looking at her as though no one else exists. I want him to always offer bites of his food before she even asks, and to always open doors. She will give him the window seat on airplanes, and nurse his colds with chicken soup that she calls her Mum to learn to make. I want him to call when he says he will and to run out to the deli on the corner to buy her daffodils when she’s in the shower. She will learn to wear her hair down, because she knows how he loves running his fingers through it. He will wake up to her cooking them breakfast. She will get up early to get him concert tickets, and leave them with love letters tucked away in his wallet. He will always hold her when she cries, even if he’s angry with her, and she will always cover him with a blanket when he falls asleep on the couch. Already, they’re choreographing the dance they will practice together.

I want them to spend the rest of the afternoon together. To walk the city until they decide on their next destination. They should go to a movie and sit nervously, eagerly anticipating the other one to make a move. To accidentally brush the other one’s arm and linger while the butterflies flutter inside their stomachs. In the middle of the movie, I want her to turn and look at him, and then look away smiling when he responds. I want him to put his arm in the small of her back when they exit the theater together. They should hail a cab, and he’ll open the door and she’ll slide in and sit in the middle of the seat, waiting for him to meet her there. I want her to rest her head on his shoulder, and her hand on his thigh for the ride. He’ll lean into it. And slowly, she will tilt her head up and there, in the back of that cab, they will have their first kiss. Already, I want them to make it.

A year from now, I want them to move in together. They’ll paint the walls, and line the shelves with their books. All mixed in. Pictures of their separate existences will hang on the walls they share. They’ll have a housewarming, and their family and friends will surround them, beaming at these two people who can’t stop smiling at each other. Each day they will look at each other and think how lucky they are to have found each other; this other person who is making their life so much better by merely being in it. They will come home to the other cooking dinner, will watch their underwear tumbling in the laundry together on Saturday mornings, call out to each other in the grocery store for forgotten items, negotiate cleaning duties, and forge an existence of shared happiness. I want them to have passionate sex that makes them blush when they look at each other. They will snuggle under the covers the next morning, floating, their knees and elbows kissing. I want them to realize their power to undo and comfort each other, and the responsibility that comes with it. Already, they’ve done it.

They will learn to recognize and love their neuroses and quirks. He will spend too much money on magazines, and she will perpetually be five minutes late to everything. They will learn to never take each other for granted, especially when the mundane things abound; the dirty dishes, the cable bill, day jobs, miscommunication with friends, and the exhausting reality of a domestic existence. Because these two people have been moving towards each other their entire lives, with every decision made or unmade, their momentum has been guided by the other. The other is someone else who loves Le Petit Prince, who likes getting dressed up, who can argue without getting angry, who tries every single day to be a good person, someone who thinks deeply and honestly about things, who understands the power of a good laugh or even cry, another who can forgive especially when the hurt is deep, who loves unconditionally and with their entire being. I want them to make it for another fifty years, still in love, realizing that they were more together than they could have been alone.

I wish this for these two people whose meeting I was privy to. I was a silent witness to their love and happiness. And at this very moment I believe and hope in the power of connection, of love.

[nayantacious-blog]

On skateboards and trains

I skateboarded down 6th avenue once. I had to hold on to his hand though, because my ability to harm myself on solid ground was astounding enough. It was such a perfect spring day, the breeze was only cold on certain blocks and we didn’t need jackets.

He came and picked me up in my office, waiting in the lobby. I always liked that. Coming out of the elevator and searching for him, even though he always stood in the same place playing with this phone. It was his birthday and he had taken the day off- just because. I remember walking up to him, and giving him a kiss. He noticed the pink ribbon safety pinned to my blouse and asked if it was for Breast Cancer awareness. Yes, I responded, unpinning and repining to the strap of his bag. We stood close, and he draped one arm over my shoulder, the other holding on to the ramps of his skateboard.

We walked out into the day, and instinctively I grabbed his arm, I remember feeling elated that after two months we had finally gotten to that stage of unspoken intimacy. Where we felt comfortable altering and shifting each other’s body parts like this without having to ask or cautiously advance.

“Broome Street bar?”

“Broome Street bar.”

Walking up the street, we inquired about each other’s days. He woke up late, lounged around with his dog, and came into the city to me. I had begun my day much earlier; run in and out of meetings, and generally been more stressed in that half of a work day then he would be that day, or even week.  

“How’d the deck turn out?” He asked, remembering the nervousness in my voice from our conversation the night prior.

“Fine, I guess. I mean, they didn’t complain, so good?” I rambled on a bit more about what caused the nervousness and he quietly listened, shaking his head every so often.

Stopping at lights, I would lean into his chest and continue talking. Like my words were aimed into him rather than at him.

Eventually we made our way up the few blocks, and I stopped to let him get the door. He had this ridiculously adorable habit of never letting me touch a door, and I’ve never had to in the time we were together. He stretched his arm; I walked in, and felt him behind me, quicker than I could be to get the second door. They seated us in that table in the corner, the one in the back space that juts in. They always seated us there. It was quieter and more intimate, affording privacy away from fellow diners. I love that table.

I handed him the brown paper bag that had been hanging from my right wrist. He looked and me and squinted his eyes.

“Just open it!”

Slowly and deliberately he pulled out the tissue paper and started pulling things out- first the card.

“Don’t open it now. Read it later.” I said uncharacteristically. I wrote letters in cards to see the reactions they elicit.

 Next came the little wooden train whistle. He furrowed his brow with a confused smile.

“Keep going!”

Looking into the bag, his face bloomed into a smile. It finally all clicked. Out came the train conductor’s hat, and red paisley scarf. He tilted the bag and out came the three little connector trains I added for good measure.

I looked at him nervously, biting my lower lip.

“Because you wanted to be a train conductor!”

“I can’t believe you remembered this. Where did you find all this?”

“Oh, you know, around here and there.” I lied. I spent the better part of the past two weeks walking in and out of every kitschy parlor and costume store in the city. Finally, having had no luck, wandered into the Toys R Us – in Times Square of all places – and there it was. I called Mummy standing near that indoor Ferris wheel out of sheer excitement. She couldn’t hear me through noise of the children, but it didn’t matter. But it was important to him, so anxiety be damned.

We ate our lunch (a bowl of chili for him, grilled cheese for me) and drank our beer (Stella for us both), and an hour had passed. We people watched and exchanged words on topics I’ve long since forgotten. It’s universal, isn’t it - these initial conversations that carry so much weight in the moment, but are discarded along the wayside. What we said doesn’t matter so much now because I was happy then. That was enough.

After the formality of him reaching for the check had passed, we stepped back out on to the street. It seemed oddly deserted.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe head to the west-side? I’m not meeting my parents until later. But I’ll walk you back to the office.”

“Can I skate back?”

“If you want. Do you know how?”

“Umm. No, but you’re here.”

I didn’t have to ask, he grabbed my hand as soon as I set foot on it. I propelled myself forward and tightened my grip.

“It’s fine, you’re fine.”

I’d feel him pulling me as I started veering to the right. More than once my body wanted to go to the right, towards the street and opposing traffic. He would pull me back and straighten me out. I couldn’t ever get the handle of the continuous movement. After the initial surge would slow me down, I let it slow me down. I didn’t realize I had to keep myself going. With or without him, my progress depended on my momentum. My body had to move the board, he was merely balance.

I couldn’t understand this then.

[nayantacious-blog]

On sleeplessness

It felt like the world was conspiring that night.

It was eerily clear before the rain grew from near silent drops to the pelting sheets that woke us both up. I remember lying in your bed with your arms draped across my body, your breath on my neck and staring up at the skylight. I watched the rain through short fits of sleep. When I wasn’t mesmerized by the constant stream pitter pattering on the pane, I was nuzzling into your body. My spine curved into your stomach, and could feel your heart beating against my left shoulder blade. I tried to pace my pulse with yours. I’d never felt that perfectly nestled before. I threw my arm back and pulled you closer to me, and you obliged. It felt so good to be able alter and shift each other’s body parts without caution.

We fit so well.

I sighed and felt your arms tighten. It was like a signal, I knew. It took everything in me to keep from sighing again. I wanted to test out my theory when I knew it to be true. I smiled instead.

I wanted to badly to just fall asleep because I knew that if I stayed awake the dam would break and the thoughts would flood.

I didn’t fall asleep.

I started imagining doing this for every single night that followed; of sleeping next to you and feeling you on me. I thought about learning something new about you every single day until I knew you like my tongue knows the back of my teeth. I wanted to sit on your steps and watch you moving around the kitchen; to observe the movement of the body that houses a little part of me. I smiled thinking of Saturday afternoons filled with the minutiae of living; to stand next to you and fold our laundry, to hand you groceries to put away.  I longed for lazy Sunday mornings of lying in bed and reading. I ached to know the intricacies of your voice, to recognize the ebbs and flows as markers of your moods. I envisioned the arguments we were bound to have, of two people who craved control coming to a head over something trivial. And of making up after prolonged silences. I wanted so badly to recognize the faces you make and to be able to count the hills and valleys of your furrowed brow. I dreamt of nights spent apart that were overcome with longing, of missing you. And especially of being reunited with you and of feeling your shoulder blades with the palms of my hands as we hugged. I fantasized our families melding into one unit that we belonged to, together, and that belonged to us as a joint entity. I wished to belong to you, like your name- I wanted to be a thing others have to know in order to know you.

As  these thoughts tumbled around, the rain got heavier and heavier until it turned to hail. I could feel you shifting next to me, the pelting waking you. I turned to face you, to watch you wake up. You rolled onto your back and tossed your eyes toward the ceiling.

“This is the only thing I hate about the skylight.” You broke the silence with a near whisper.

Foregoing words, I kissed your neck and traced imaginary lines connecting the freckles on your chest. You took my hand and kissed my palm. Slowly and deliberately, and let it rest on your chest. I looked up at your face, and watched you fall back asleep.

There was a part of me that wanted to wake you up and share with you. To tell you everything that was running through my mind while you were deep in slumber. But I didn’t.

I didn’t because I know I’m falling a lot faster than you are. I wanted to suck all the air out of the room. I wanted to transplant us into a vacuum sealed bell jar and be on the same speed down. I wanted a future with you. I wanted you un-tethered to anyone else. I wanted you full stop.

In all your openness, you made it clear what you were capable of. I heard you say it, but I didn’t listen. I can recall the words as you said them, individually, but I don’t know what you said. I don’t know how it changes what is between us. But it did, didn’t it?

For now, I will have to resolve that if all we had was until the sun came up, then while you were sleeping next to me, I had a life with you.

[nayantacious-blog]

On the kindness of strangers

*written on 3.31.2011

I passed out on the train today. A very crowded Q train coming into the city.

I got on the train at Queensboro plaza, like I’ve done every single work day for the past 4 years and immediately made eye contact with a young man sitting about five people away from where I was standing, by the door. I wasn’t leaning on it mind you, I follow the rules! I thought it odd that we looked at each other with such recognition, but in the bustle of finding a coveted spot on bar to hold, I didn’t think much of it. I didn’t think anything of it really, hoping to count it as one of those rare moments that people choose to connect with one another. When we make an honest attempt at recognizing how similar we all truly are. When we make a true attempt to see another person. This wasn’t a cursory glance, this was substantive.

The train slowly lurched into the tunnel and I started to get very warm and generally uncomfortable. My face felt flush, my stomach was doing flips into itself, and my head felt light with its heaviness. It didn’t help that the very brusque woman standing next to me had a coat of very fake, very furry fur on, and the feathers were close enough to brush my face through every shudder and stop of the train. It was one of those days when nature hadn’t yet decided if she is going to hold on to the waning winter, or glide into the easing warmth of spring. So no one was dressed as comfortably as we wished we had.

Immediately, my thoughts went to “don’t get sick! don’t throw up!” I kept repeating this to myself until my anxiety kicked in. It doesn’t help that my anxiety makes itself known arbitrarily, but at this moment it was the most despised.

I feel my face get flushed and warm and I just keep holding on as tightly to that pole as possible. We’re pulling into Lex/59th st and that’s when it happens.

I can hear the announcer, and suddenly my plans of stepping off the train and sitting down are gone. All of a sudden my vision just closes in on itself and goes black. Like one of those telescopes you pay a quarter to use at the beach, my time was up and the lens closed.

I feel as though I remember more than I do, or is true. Vague and hazy recollections of myself falling, but it is always from the perspective of witnessing the act rather than living it, so I doubt these mental images.

I fell right as that young man was crossing my way to get off the train and he caught me. He caught me and helped me off and onto a bench. My fingers were clutching onto the shoulders of his jacket. The fabric of his rain coat were meshed in between my fingers. I haven’t a clue how I managed to take steps.

And he sat with me, and talked to me, and comforted me and didn’t leave my side until he saw that I felt better.

In my incoherence, I didn’t even get his name.

If somehow, life will conspire again - like it did this morning to make sure that I saw him- I would very much like to learn his name and say thank you for being so kind and for reminding me that humanity still exists.

And give him a hug.

[nayantacious-blog]

On not taking words back

“I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.” - Margaret Atwood

The first utterances of an “I love you” were silenced with the approaching train. The metallic grazing of the wheels against the rails, the screeching as it halts, the rhythm that I’ve come to predict. I stood there, holding my dress, swaying from the onslaught of dry air. You stood with your back to the tracks, and I could see water dripping beyond your head. Where was it all coming from?

You, who I remember on that first day, who was in my eye-line from the moment I set foot in that room. Where ever I was, there you were. Always leaning into your monitor, your face always resting in your left palm; back tilted at a 70 degree angle, did you have bad eye sight because you did that, or despite it? It didn’t matter. Whatever the cause, I loved your thick glasses, because I had no choice but to look at your eyes. Those soft baby blues magnified to ridiculous proportions.

I remember, so vividly, our first encounter. I was in that dark, windowless office and sitting in the chair that faced the door; your desk beyond it, ever in my view. The meeting I had attended was long since over, but I sat there pretending to take notes when I was just relishing my secret glances. And suddenly, you got up and faced me. Had I been caught? As I was quickly grasping at excuses, I saw you start heading my way.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. I kept repeating to myself.

You walked into the room, threw a quick smile my way, and went to a colleague and feigned “thank you (s)” for tickets to a show. Diplomatically, she made introductions, and that was it. That was all it took.

That was how you managed to find your way into my body, and stick to my ribs.

Everything is leading to something. Most things are leading to someone. I’ve found that more often than not they are inconsequential, and then there are others, who grow stronger, sweeter and more necessary. It goes without saying which category you belong to.

I know how you meant it and in the 24 hours that are passing, I worry that you too will take it back. Deep in the recesses, I know that you won’t but it looms. Because, however you meant it, you are already different. You are already better, because you recognize the shatterable-ness of me. Of us. But it is there, and shrouding the activities of the day with a pang of something I cannot name. It feels like a tiny balloon exploding in my chest, staining my insides with its pallor. The last time was more dramatic and I find myself hoping for the time when it will be right. When it will be true. The timing never seems to fit. But when you look over and smile at something unimportant and ridiculous, I flash to that moment on the platform. And I’m suddenly completely aware of its fragility.

The fragility of you, and ultimately us. There isn’t an us but in my own head. I was kindly reminded this week that my time with you is close to an end. I responded with silence because I’ve known that to be true for quite a while but not thinking about it makes it disappear. But hearing another more realistic voice in my head changes things. Thinking about future days when I may not see you seems impossible. That’s denial of the greatest kind. You once said that you couldn’t remember being this happy until I came along. I haven’t done anything other than want to make you smile. And if in my haphazard attempt, I’ve succeeded for a mere second, I’ll be golden. You’ve told me that you trust me. This means the world because with that one word you instantly bestow faith in me, respect me, and add weight to my words. There is an importance to that I’ve never been aware of until now.

Ultimately, I’m left with two options. I can either stop right now and save myself from breaking my own heart even more, or I can be honest with you and hope that I don’t muck things up too much. Though I don’t want to do either for fear that both will end up crushing this already sensitive psyche. But I have to right? What am I waiting for?

Will I always love what I never had?

(I hope she realizes how fortunate she is.)

[nayantacious-blog]

On friendships

Think about that one person who knows the words in your head before the synapses in your brain have fired in order to vocalize them. The one who manages to skip ahead four or five steps in your slow unraveling in order to be there to catch you falling. Or in your rare moments of bravery, will watch you leap proudly from the sidelines. And will very quietly but very strongly hold your hand as your writhe in pain- whether literal or figurative. That one individual who conspires with life to say the right things as the tears start flowing, or the laughter erupts, or the happiness surges. The one friend who manages to knock on your door with a blueberry scone, and an overflowing heart. THE friend. We all have one. Some are fortunate enough to have a few- each fulfilling a different destiny, like the pantheon of power and strength they are. They are the ones who respond to the bat signal, even in the most inconvenient of times; or rather, especially during those times. When you are at your absolute worst but they manage to look past it all to shine a light on the less bad; because as much as you need it, they need to more. It is unspoken, and at times undignified, but it is the crux upon which your very existence together is built. I get really attached to people, very easily in fact. I will start dreaming of the imaginary future that awaits us. I like knowing we will be around in the future. And so the minute I meet someone new, I have this horrible tendency to give them everything. No holds barred. It is quite possibly the most selfish and selfless thing I do. I forge each new -ship feeling as though there will never be enough time to fully absorb this other person. There is no slow and steady. It is a chance to make it right. To make this person better than the last. To allow them to make me better than the last. New iterations - together. Always together. I'm also constantly wondering how it is that life deemed us to meet, because it most certainly did. What were the chain of events in the great big universe that led to the meeting? Rewind back to a decade ago... I was standing there, filling my plastic cup with water, tray in hand. A slight tap of the shoulder and we stood there facing one another. The new resident director whom I knew nothing about, save for his name and that he liked Charlie Brown and me, the fresh faced, eager to please resident advisor. Little could I have known that my life would suddenly be filled, with quite frankly everything, on that humid August afternoon standing in a building that no longer exists. We stood together and saw it burning a few years later. Unaware that it was tragic foreshadowing. But like all things that burn, something new emerges from the ashes, but we were too young to know that then. Writing this as a person who didn't exist then; who couldn't exist- without him. I remember most everything but cannot recall the in between stage of our friendship. I don't think there was one. It feels like we went from uttering our first words to each other in the dining hall to sitting across from one another purging those secrets and thoughts that had been kept locked away. Knowing- without a doubt- that they were leaving their hiding spots for a safer heart. I've yet to feel something that natural. There were never doubts or reservations. Even when we were the closest to being broken- we were fractured - but the bones refused to let go. They couldn't. Without the support of the opposing side, the entire structure would have crumbled. That was the beauty though. We realized this. Even while spewing emotional vitriol in each other's faces. Sitting across from each other and realizing the other was virtually unrecognizable. It didn't matter because it was all fleeting. Deep down, we were in each other. Thinking about my life and the decisions I've made, I'm obsessed with wondering how different things could have been. This is fueled by sheer curiosity and not regret. Even in my imagination the butterfly effect is apparent but he'd always find his way in. It is impossible to think that someone so important couldn't exist in my destiny. That I could have been fated to wander this life without him by my side is a reality I would never want to face. There's no way. How could I be who I am, and who I'm meant to be without him? He's ingrained in me. He's become my insides.

[nayantacious-blog]

On running into you

I dreamt about you last night. I haven't thought about you since last July - Independence Day weekend, in fact - when D and I walked into Cafe Habana on that gloriously perfect summer afternoon. When the sun was at its highest and was so bright that your eyes refused to open. When the breeze at its coolest and you could randomly catch it rustling the leaves between the trees. When the streets were at their most vivid liveliness and everything was pulsing with life. And I noticed you through the open windows and stopped walking because my eyes refused to move away from your face - your bright, smiling face. Your lunch companion said something and all of a sudden I could hear your laughter. It isolated itself from the sounds around me on Prince Street. It still echoes through my head if I close my eyes very tightly, and think very hard on you. I can hear it. We walked in, and I rushed past you like I couldn't be bothered. When I waited for you to call out my name, more than once through the din of the crowd just so I could savor how it sounded. And you did. I heard you call out to me, excitedly. I ignored you to put our names on the list, because it was all I could do to not come at you. I heard you call out to me again, with longing (oh, how I wish) and urgency the second time around. I tossed my head around searching for the source, when I knew exactly where you were standing. Holding the gauzy fabric of my dress in my right hand, because it was all I could do to not reach out to you, I turned with eyes closed and opened them on you. I acted surprised (I wasn't) and elated (I was) and we hugged in that narrow walkway between the bar and tables. Wedged between people as they came in and left, did you hold on for a few seconds more? No, I must've imagined that. You abandoned your meal and friend, and stood outside with me. You were leaning in closer than you should have- I remember leaning back when all I wanted to do was lean into your chest. You were making stronger eye contact than you needed to, our eyes darting back and forth from each other- piercing. I could feel your hands on my arms and shoulders- lingering. Reminding me. Reminding me of all those things that I'm no longer privy to but want to be. I was reminded about how I had you in my life. How I wanted to be around you all the time, even in silence. All of that excited nervousness that would dissipate when I'd see you. I felt that pang when I remembered how I was convinced that your greatest ambition was to make me laugh, which you did. Beautifully. The kind of laughter you cannot control, which returns when you look at each other again. The contagious kind that affects those around you. Those days when we'd spend afternoons instant messaging each other from desks away, and suddenly erupt into fits of laughter. When we would lie and sneak away to the Burger Joint - how you'd always be willing to push apart those heavy drapes when you knew I hated how they felt - for afternoon milkshakes. Citing meetings with clients, we'd take the long route to the guitar shop so you could buy strings. The three months when we would leave the office unusually early on Tuesday afternoons for our Russian lessons. I'd always toss in an extra granola bar for our walk to class. I kept the flash cards I made us, the ones we spent hours flipping back and forth to each other at Borders. Through it all, the one memory I keep running back to is wiping away your tears when you recounted your fathers death. The one you so graciously shared with me, wholly, sitting at that shitty bar near the office. I wiped away your tears and held you, and you let me. I remember all of this when we went and got the obligatory drinks a week later. Where I sat and listened to you share your heartbreak. And joy and sadness over losing her. I listened, like the friend you needed me to be. I listened still as you promised me that you'd call and we'd do this again, more regularly this time. You walked me to the subway and I came back up the steps to watch you turn the corner. And that was that. But I dreamt about you last night.

[nayantacious-blog]

On falling

Five minutes was all it took. Five minutes is nothing. It's enough to pee. It's enough to buy a cup of coffee. It's enough to amble through your purse to find your keys.

It's enough to look at someone and see the kindness in their eyes.

Those were my first words about you - "he's got kind eyes." I said to Q at Rm. 55. Seeing the fateful sign, even then. Especially then. I fervently believe in signs. I look for them, they make themselves known, they’re everywhere- and I truly believe that. It’s the only way I know that life is listening.

I think about how I fell for you from so far away - the inner workings of a computer and social networking, a mystery that nonetheless brought you to life when you were away those first few weeks. Your digitized story on my screen, your words in any font I choose. Those letters. Those gloriously modern letters that I wholly and holy cherished. They were snippets of goodness- your goodness. The anticipation of seeing the little number pop up telling me I had new messages to check was the modern equivalent of waiting for the postman. My monitor replaced the window. Each letter revealing more and more about you. Each verse giving me more insight into you. I thought so carefully and consciously of the words I chose to respond with, wanting so badly to reveal myself in increments. I fell for you fully nonstop, yet in doses throughout my day to make the most of the giddiness.

And giddiness is all I've ever felt around you. It's the most apt way to describe the excitement, the nervousness, the prospect of it all.

I think about how I fell for you from very close - sitting next to you at Garage on our first date. About your arm resting on my crossed thigh, like the slope was meant to be adorned by your arm clad in cashmere. My arm looped through yours and my hand resting safely in the crux. The sides of our bodies forming a seam.  Our steps coinciding.  Standing on street corners, waiting for the light to change and you unhooking my arm to hold me instead. How you always leaned in when I rested my head on your shoulder, like you wanted to hold me there. Those brief moments when our fingers would intertwine and our hands would clasp while walking through crowds. Each time lasting longer than the last.

I think about how I fell for you when we touched - when we kissed, and spoke in lips and tongues. Our roving hands seeking each other. There are some places where nothing belongs, but in bed, together, we belong everywhere. The ease and comfort with which we touched. The warmth we generate even just with fingertips- penetrating through whatever barriers were in the way. How you always held my hand when I came- squeezing tighter. My right hand and your left hand become so tightly clasped that the pad of muscle at the base of each thumb is flattened against the bone and interlaced fingers are jammed down between the joints. It isn’t a clasp against imminent parting, it’s got nothing to do with any future, it belongs in the urgent purity of the present. The way you slightly hovered above me that first time when all I wanted was the full weight of your body pressed against mine. Our skin fusing into one and peeling apart- somehow made softer. My skin becoming the same color as yours in bed. How I'd feel your fingertips grazing my body on waning sleep. It didn't matter how I turned, or where my body lay, I knew within minutes of my movement I'd feel you adjusting yourself to me.

I think about how I fell for you when we were apart - when thoughts of the last time consumed me. I would live and relive these moments in the anticipation of seeing you again. I needed them to tide me over. Constantly wondering if I ever swam into your view. Thoughts of you somehow forgetting me would grab hold, and I'd have to circle back to thinking of our time together to remind myself that I'm not making you up in my head. That you are real, and very tangible. That we as a thing exist very really. The pang of leaving lessens over time, but that first literal tearing apart from the place we have fused physically and psychically hurts and grows over with each day apart. But all it takes is one of these miraculous signs, usually in the form of your name, to show up and I'm back to giddy.

[nayantacious-blog]

On memory

"Memory. She lacerates herself with memory." - Tennessee Williams

I have an impeccable memory. I remember things that most people would, either quickly or rather, forget. I can repeat- verbatim- words you've uttered that you'd rather not remember. I hold on to them. Whether I'd like to or not, they are there. For better or worse. I can spit out dates, and memories. Anecdotes? No worries, I got you. Not only will I remember, but will also correct you.

With the exception of you. It's been a few months shy of a year since I last saw your face, and I can't remember what it looks like. I want to. So badly. But I just can't seem to, and it devastates me. For having such a prideful, and useful talent, your face is all I want and I can't have it.

I thought I saw it one night. Waking up from haggard, jet-lagged sleep, I sat up in bed. It was there, and I felt like I could just reach out and touch you. You seemed so close. It scared me, because I wasn't expecting it. That scar an inch under your right eye that I had forgotten about. The one that's felt my fingertips. It suddenly bloomed into view, and I couldn't bear it. I covered my face with my hands to shield myself from yours. Was it merely your face, or all that it implied that scared me?

Because, let's face it, even when our bodies were touching, even (or especially) when you were inside me, I still couldn't reach you. You were there, and I could see you, but there was always a distance I needed to cross to get to you. And it was always me. I needed to cross the barrier. All you needed to do was offer me a few words, and I'd be there. At your beck and call.

Looking back, I can see the utter unfairness of it all. My texts, my words to you, going unresponsive. And yours, I would spend days cherishing. Everything was on your terms. Every single thing. I spent so many minutes waiting for your words. Every single time my phone pinged or buzzed, I'd say a quick prayer that it was you. Beckoning. And my heart would drop a little when it was something or someone else. And I'm still so upset that my hopes for you took away from everyone and everything else at that time. I was utterly consumed by you. You and the sheer cruelty of it all.

I had such hopes for that night. That night was meant to be the opening to end the promise and the threat. And all I got was more heartbreak at your hands. Your text, received on my birthday, snapped me out of pain. Momentary, though it was, I hadn't felt that in so long. I needed it, and to see your words lit up on my screen were more than I could handle. I looked at it and I kept looking at it. Unbelieving. Reliving.

Is it you? Is it really you?

I hadn't seen you for three years. Three long years, when I thought about you far more than you thought about me. Three years I spent waiting for you, that you spent living your life. Albeit, unhappily. But living nonetheless- without me.

Did you ever think about me? Where was I during those three years. Would I swim into view every so often? Did those views taunt you? Or did you derive some happiness from me? Would you think about us? Those short, fleeting moments we spent together.

I don't know. I haven't the slightest clue, because you don't let me in. You refuse to. The irony is that it's precisely your complaint about her. But none of that matters, because all you see is what you want to see. Not what's in front of you. Not me who is and wants to be.

What pains me the most, even more than your deception, is your cowardice. That we had a true and real shot at something good, and yet you couldn't face it. You could look me in the face and say "I can cheat on her, but I can't lie to you." That makes you spineless, but you thought it made you big.

Sometimes I worry that I made you up. That you aren't real, precisely because I don't have anything of yours that is my own. I don't have a picture. I don't have anything that belonged to you. I don't even have a recollection of your face.

[nayantacious-blog]

On remembering 6.21.11

It's amazing how the first and last times I was with you were similar - they both resulted with me running from your hotel room. I'd learned from the first time, I wasn't half naked this time around. A sign of progress.

Ostensibly, the same change you said you noticed in me. The spry (I saw that as nervous) 22 year old had turned into a mature (seriously?!) 28 year old woman. You saw it, you said. In the way I dressed, the way I spoke, the way I held myself.

I revel in that observation. In your words and the way you looked at me - like you were seeing someone new. Like you really noticed it.

Of all the things you said that night one of my absolute favorite things was that you had noticed that my drink had changed.

"I remembering you drinking such sugary drinks (coconut rum & juice) and look at you now. with your man's' drink (maker's mark and soda)."

I loved that you remembered that. It would have seemed ridiculous to most, but to me, it was such a little fleck of goodness. then again, it was how we met.

Anytime I recount that story, I marvel at how much of a cinematic beginning it had.

"Is this seat taken?"

Those were your first words to me.

I don't think I've ever admitted this to anyone, and I certainly haven't to you, but I remember noticing you at the bar before you made your way to me. I saw you standing by the door, eyeing the place. Looking, searching. Maybe not for me, but you found me. That night, that infamous night when I ran out of the Waldorf-Astoria, half naked, thinking I"d never hear from you again.

And yet here we are. Six years later. A lot closer than I thought possible given the distance. The ever present distance.

Then it happened. Then you told me why these distances existed. You told me about her. About the way she existed in your life. Who she was to you. Who she IS to you.

We spoke a lot that night. A lot of what you said surprise me. A lot of what I said surprised me.

"I'm a cheater, but I can't like to you." to me, you said. to. me.

Like I mattered in your life. I know I matter. It wasn't until you said it out loud that I realized I mattered to you. And you looked at me like you were terrified that you had fucked me up somehow. That you knew I hadn't ever dealt with this and you didn't want to be the one doing it to me.

And that's when I realized why you kept my number, why you kept me in your life - because I was that person in your life. The one you saw hope in. You were, you are, to me the one who had his shit together. Who was older, mature, had the type of life I wanted to grow into. And I said this to you, before your revelation. Which I think added to your now wanting to lie to me. And I reminded you of that - how so very grateful I was that you didn't lie to me. That you didn't want to lie to me.

And despite that revelation, you are still all of those things to me.

I want you to know how close I came to running back upstairs to room 1208. To where you were. To you.

I didn't. I stood by the elevator and looked down the hallway to your door. Wanting so badly to see you standing there. I'd have run back if I saw you standing there. I told myself what I knew. I would have.

I didn't because I knew that I couldn't have a hand in someone else's unhappiness. I couldn't help you be unhappier in your life. I couldn't mar what we had.

Because to do that would be to damage this pristine image of us and our imaginary non-existent existence. My friends continuously ask why it is that I don't' speak up about what I want with you. How I'd so quickly agree to something, anything more substantial than this. My only response is that I'd rather imagine and dream (and I do) about a future with you than a reality without you.

And yet, here we are. I'm facing a future without you. I'm dreading, what I was previously anxiously excited about, the 4 hours I know we will be in the same country. You may see that as coincidence, but to me, it's fate. That is life reminding me with it's cruel, fickle hand at how close we were.

You will never read this.

You will never know more about how the last few days have so kept me awake and in turmoil. How I would take the long way to work so that I'd walk past your hotel on the off chance that I'd run into you. I stayed so many more hours, sitting at my desk in the hopes that you'd call me and I could run the 3-minute walk to you.

How badly I want to go back to Sunday evening, when you so persistently kept me on the phone trying to get me out of my pj's and in a cab to you. To go back to that ignorant bliss. When I was just excited to see you and be with you. When she didn't exist at all. All I had to think about was us.

And somehow, I'd be able to justify this as fate. Life. Some greater force moving us together despite her existence a world away. Even though that isn't the truth.

I meant every word I said to you. Not only that night but for the past six years. But especially those last few sentences.

I hope, more than I think I've ever hoped for anything else, that I will see you again.