Infatuations, revisited

I wrote this (Infatuations) almost exactly one year ago. Many commented, laughed and cried with me - I didn't know I'd stumbled upon one of the most widely shared feelings. Some of them were friends, some strangers, some girls, some boys. Today, I am writing this because I want to record this other tiny feeling, which feels a little sad, a little glad, and a little old.

People say that an infatuation is easy to get over. All you need to do is put some time between you and your heart. They say, it's love that lingers, it's love that you never get over.

You no longer spend the bulk of your time talking to him, and all of your time thinking of him. Your rare meetings always leave you somewhat surprised at how unfamiliar he looks. Why does he let his arms dangle like that? Was this how he always smiled?

He greets you first now, because you didn't notice him as you walked by. He catches your eye with a cheerful "Hey", plucked from the happiness of his prior company. But he stops to grin at you. He does see you. You hold the thread of connection for a second in silence, then allow yourselves to be washed off by the crowd. His smile doesn't make your heart flutter, but it does skip a beat. You breathe only when his back is turned, stealing small glances at his jaunty walk. You observe that his smile was strange only because you were in front of it, when you used to be behind it, sharing it. No, wait, you can't claim his past.

For the rest of the day, your friends tell you that you've grown quiet. You deny it - you haven't. Two seconds of presence don't affect a year accustomed to absence. But you wonder what he thinks of you, if he remembers the time you shared a ratty cup of hot tea in the freezing room, or the time you shouted each other down. Perhaps he doesn't remember either.

He taps on your monitor late in the night and asks you for help. He needs you to make his sentences pretty. You're good at that, so you do it. His words are confused and poorly. He worries you won't understand him. But you do. You always do. And you don't know why. You take the raw thing he hands you and return it polished. Even as you hand it over, you are lost in its dazzling gleam. You cant quite decide - are those his words, or yours?

You let the conversation grow. A lot of what he tells you, you already know. He must not remember a lot about the two of you, if he says all these things again. You know his plans for the future, you know his principles, you know his pet peeve. You notice that he doesn't know your catchphrase, or your romanticism everyone else knows you by. Then he takes out a small detail and asks you if you remember this one whisper. You can't lie - you really don't. Now you feel bad. He says it's okay.

You talk about love. He tells you of a girl he has set his sights on. You wish him luck. You try to find something to say. He asks you if you've ever been in love. You think. You fluster.

Slowly, you say yes. Yes, but it never worked out. He laughs. He doubts, he says. He thinks you don't know what love is. You don't know what love is.

The world is a whirlwind, the conversation has ended. You crawl into your bed in a daze. No tears fall to dampen the pillow. He said he'd talk to you again, though you know it'll be weeks till then. You place your hand on your chest - your heart beats still.

It beats still.