That moment when you first held my hand. I didn’t know if you noticed the pleasure it brought to my heart, and how I simultaneously looked at your face and your hand holding mine. I was thinking that it’s just you, being helpful and naturally sweet. Or maybe it’s that alcohol we took which have given you the will to do it. But I was secretly hoping that you are aware of it. That you also wanted to know how it feels like holding my hand. Or that you intentionally do it for me to know you’re there and for me to feel your presence.
Those conversations we had that you started. I didn’t know if you noticed why it took a while before I replied. It’s because I have to contain the excitement and eagerness I had in me. They made me feel as if I’m special, that you took the time to talk to me. But I immediately disregard that feeling. Because you may also have done the same to others. That I am no exception. Or maybe, you were just bored that time and it so happened that I was the one available to talk to.
Those similarities we have— the books we both like, the characters we both share, how we easily get what each other meant because somehow, we both have that same level of thinking. I didn’t know if I’m the only one to notice. I also have no idea if those things matter to you, because to me, they do.
Those times when you’d make jokes on me. I had this feeling that you’re doing it because you want me to notice you, because you want to have my attention. But I also think that it’s just you, having the innate talent of being a jester.
I don’t know if it’s just me, being paranoid, overestimating things, giving meaning to every action you make or every situation that lead me to you. Or maybe I really do know, but I just don’t admit it to myself. Because maybe, just maybe, I’m right.