We Are Meant To Be, For the Weekend

I found this piece of writing about a past lover while digging through old files. Surprisingly, I’ve never shared it, so I’m sharing it now. I love the sentiment in which it’s written. Let me know what you think.


I don’t ask who you were talking to on the phone. I don’t ask about the unopened gift box on the table – who is it for, or who is it from. I don’t ask you anything, except for the occasional ‘Are you hungry’ There’s really no point in asking, no point in knowing. What does it matter to me how you spend your time or who you spend it with? I am only here to keep you company, and I do exactly that – not more.

I lay in your arms, all curled up like a ball. You smile at me and say I look like a tiny kitten. You kiss my forehead and begin to tell me a story. This one is about a boy who goes out in search of his dreams. He has to go through many obstacles and follow the signs to get to his dreams. You tell me about ‘maktub’ and how it’s an Arabic saying for ‘it is written’. You explain that everything has been written and is meant to happen as it is. I wonder if you know what’s written for you and me, but I don’t ask, of course.

I love the sound of your voice, the way your accent makes everything sound sensual. How you casually drop French words into your conversation. You must know the effect it has on me. I especially love how your eyes light up when you tell stories. And how you paint such vivid pictures when you describe the people you knew and the places you visited. Even when you talk about your past lovers. You refer to them with immense affection and adoration. I can’t help but wonder if you would ever talk about me in such a way – even if we were never lovers.

You notice that I’m deep in thought, and ask if I’m tired of listening to your stories. I flash my best smile at you and reassure you I never get tired of your stories and that I love listening to you. You smile again and I suddenly have this urge to kiss you. I act on it, but only halfway, leaning towards you and planting a quick peck on your left cheeks.Β  You don’t ask me what I’m thinking about. Just like I never ask you.

I close my eyes and allow myself to relax, resting my head on your shoulders. Something builds up inside me and I am forced to blurt it out. ‘Will you miss me?, I ask. I know I shouldn’t ask, but sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me. ‘Of course’, you say, planting a reassuring kiss on my forehead. I don’t know if it’s true, and it doesn’t matter. It’s what I want to hear, and I’m happy to hear it.

That’s how it is. You say things I want to hear, and I do the same to you. We don’t talk about feelings or unresolved matters. We don’t even acknowledge them. We live in our own bubble world where there’s no need for questions or answers. No plans, no promises, no expectations. No rules, no ifs, no buts. We just are. We exist only in this moment, and we don’t go anywhere near the ‘next’ moment. The future doesn’t exist as far as we’re concerned.

We spend most of the time cracking jokes and laughing at ourselves. We make fun of movies.Β  We make funny sounds and imitate people’s accents. We watch funny cat videos and South park re-runs. We talk about Greek mythology and Spanish bullfighting and World War Two. We go out to bars and try all the drinks on the menu. We sing out loud on the streets. We go for dinners, too, but never anywhere that has a dress code. We enjoy the mere pleasure of each other’s company, without giving a thought as to where it will lead to.

Sometimes I see loneliness in your eyes, and I’m sure you see sadness in mine. But we never talk about it. I cannot make you less lonely, and you cannot make me less sad. I never aspire to be what you want, and you can never be what I need. I will not give you my heart, nor will I take yours. So we just be. Without thinking. Without trying. Without discussion. Tomorrow the sun will come up and we both will go our separate ways.



Of Fries And the Man I Can’t Write About Part II

Some of you read my last post and thought that I was in love. First of all, let me assure you that I’m not in love, nor am I at the start of a lifelong relationship πŸ™‚ It’s not like that at all, and you’ll see why as you read on.

Secondly, since I promised I would try to write about the man that I can’t write about, so here goes.

I’ve thought about it and rather than attempting to describe the experience, I’d actually like to share some lessons I got from it.

I say this because this boy was much younger than me, and I’ve never dated younger men before. In fact, up until now I always preferred older men and never thought I would ever consider someone younger. Not even if he was just two minutes younger.

But this experience has been truly eye-opening. He turned out to be a much-needed shot of energy boost for me. His youthfulness was refreshingly infectious. He made me feel young and alive – like I was a school girl again πŸ™‚

We had a lot of fun and he made me laugh. What did it matter that he was a few years younger? If you were eating some delicious fries, would you stop to ask ‘How old were these potatoes?’ Of course not.

So my challenge to you is, the next time you come across a sweet & nice man, don’t worry about how old he is. Just go with the flow and forget the age thing πŸ˜‰

When I first met this boy, we hit it off straight away. We talked nonstop for over two hours, as if we’d known each other forever. At the end of the night, I excused myself to the bathroom, and as I came out, the whole gang was ready to leave. Someone had gotten the bill, and someone had taken the liberty of calling me a cab. It was all a blur and the next thing I know, I was standing at the taxi stand. The boy was also there to see me off.

I was hoping he would ask for my number, but he didn’t say anything up until this point. I was sure there was chemistry between us – it made no sense that he didn’t try to get my number.

Anyway, a cab finally pulled up, and as I opened the door, one foot stepping in, I suddenly realized I might not get to see him again. I had to do something. It was now or never. So I paused, turned back to him and mustered the courage to deliver this line “Are we never gonna see each other again?”, and with that, he smiled and proceeded to ask for my number.Β And in the middle of a busy street – while cars honked and the taxi driver yelled at me to get in – I gave him my number. The best chance I’ve ever taken, which he later thanked me for and admitted that he was shy and unsure whether the guy I came with was more than a friend (another complicated story that I won’t get into right now).

So ladies, I urge you to step out of your comfort zone and take a chance! Of course it will take some guts and there’s always a possibility of getting turned down, but it’s okay. Something great could come out of it, and even if it turns out to be nothing, at least you know you’ve tried.

From the first time we met, I knew whatever we might have would be short-lived. And no, for once it’s not because I was skeptical (even though I am). But it’s because he was leaving the country in two weeks.

It didn’t bother me at the time – he was just some cute boy I wanted to hang out with. I wasn’t going to dwell over the fact that he was leaving soon. But as we spent more and more time together, a part of me kept wishing he didn’t have to go away.

Of course he would have to leave – there was no changing that.

He asked me if I would come visit, and I responded with the most honest answer I could give.Β Je sais pas. I don’t know. I’m sure my response disappointed him, but it was more dignified than empty promises. Because even though our connection is undeniable, there was also no denying the fact that it wasn’t going to work out. We weren’t going to Skype each other everyday or plan to visit each other every few months. We both knew that.

And so I realized that sometimes life gives you the most delicious fries, without any guarantee that you’ll ever have them again. And you just have to be okay with it. I’ve learned that it takes strength to fight the urge to hold on longer.

He gave me a comforting smile, as if to say he understood. I was sad to say goodbye to my le mignon, but also proud of myself for knowing how to let go.

And there you have it, I have written two blog posts about the man I can’t write about – gotta love the irony πŸ™‚

Of Fries And the Man I Can’t Write About Part I

For the first time, I’m finding it difficult to write.

I don’t think there are words in the English dictionary to describe the magic I experienced during these past two weeks. See, I just used the word magic but it’s still not the right word to capture what I want to say.

But it was magical. A dream. A fantasy. Alice in Wonderland without the scary bits. Narnia without the killing or dying.

In fact, I don’t even know if I want to write about it. I am afraid it might lose its magic if I reduce it to words on a computer screen. I am afraid I might kill its purity by attaching it to adjectives. It’s like a special place that I can escape to whenever I want – a sanctuary for my head. I don’t know if I am ready to bring it out of my head and into the world.

And even if I did want to write about it, I still don’t know if I could find the words. How would I describe his soft blonde hair. Or those curious blue eyes and how they turned grey sometimes. Or that playful smile. Or how his eyes light up whenever he saw me. Or how adorable it was when he struggled to find the correct English word. Or how he hated it when I call him le mignon, which made him even more mignon.

Then, as if it’s not already difficult to write about him, I also have to find a way to relate this whole experience back to fries?! I’m completely at a lost for words and metaphors here!

BUT for the love of this blog, and for all my readers, I promise to try and put the words together and share my experience with you guys in the next post.

Come back here for more Fries and Men πŸ˜‰

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