Prose: Do I Miss You?

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Between Lights and Memories – Gouache on Canvas Paper (2016)

It was you who got me into trouble years ago. A troublesome love. The uncontinued story between you and me.

Same day, same place, in 2014

I remember the day I sent you a stupid piece of writing I took from “10 Things I Hate About You” in this cafetaria. You asked me why I hate the way you drive your car, and then I said that I hate the way you drive me crazy even more. We laughed. We were in love.

Do you remember when we called each other every night no matter how many times we met during the day? Or when you called me while I was in a bad mood for being so faraway from each other? You started to tell an imaginary dog’s love story to cheer me up. Do you remember the day I called just to tell you how my day was even though we had lunch together in the same day?

I remember the time when I drove at night to your flat when I suddenly missed you with no reason. Even we had to keep it silent because I might wake your roommate for being too loud and over excited while hugging you when I arrived. Later we talked about secrets and we kissed in a dark. We fell asleep in your bed with my clothes on because we felt the intimacy created from a deep talk not sexual intercourse. From the first night to many many nights after, with deeper talk and ugly tees we wore.

I also reckon the moment when you drove for three hours just to have lunch and dinner with me on Sunday. Then I suggested you a weird place to hang out because I ran off the idea. We still enjoyed that between kebab and stupid conversations.

Do you remember when we went out for some ice creams during the exam week? When you taught me one subject that I nailed it with higher score than you got? Or the day we studied together in the same ice cream shop but ended up talking about random stuffs again?

But then I walked away, I pushed you away before you left me and took me for granted. I chose not to believe you, I chose to be distant and I chose to let it go. I have never wanted to be the last one in pain, nor the last one who waited for the story crumbled by itself. I wanted to be selfish because it avoided me from losing more of your kindness and memories of us.

Do I miss you?

Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

From: “An Ode Of Memories” (2014) with moderation.

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