I used to be an edgy, emotional teenager. But I guess the essence of being a teenager is that you're confused, in puberty, and angry. Emerging out of that phase as a semi-adult, I question the actions and decisions my past self used to make.
When faced with confusion, humans break the unknown down to multiple “knowns,” while the quality of “un” is the connection between these many links.
(A dumb girl once said, and that girl might be me)
I sometimes remember my ex-boyfriend and his request to hug me. I don’t love him anymore, so the memory calls back more negativity than nostalgia. I was in a blue dress, and he said I looked very “hug-worthy.” Sadly, the seventeen-year-old me deemed that as a compliment; it brought me endless joy in the middle of the night, while the yelling of my parents continued. The night grew longer, as more requests came. “Can I kiss you?” “Can I touch you?” “Can we ‘do it?’”
There was nothing wrong about him. Nothing about the questions rubbed me the wrong way. The only thing that did, was the fact that I perhaps never loved him. Seventeen-year-old me was desperate for love, for affection. In the midst of the bustling city that felt too hot and harsh for a girl who could not keep up with its strict academic schedules, I struggled to find a safe haven of calmness. Seeing my parents’ wreckage of a marriage intensified that need. I wanted to be held, and the touches, the experimentations, and the “love” seemed to satisfied the craving.
His face twisted into a shadow, like acrylic paint I mixed up with my old palette knife. Beige merged into black, and the silhouette of his figure curls, only to be completely distorted, unrecognizable.
I am filled with disgust, thinking about it now. How is it possible that someone you once told yourself you would love for a long time can become a point of utmost distaste? This unknown I cannot break down. For feelings are very hard to rationalize, and this I have known.