Right. Now To Get Over You.

Dear Muse,

I never realized I had fallen for you. It was only when you told me that you were falling for someone else that I felt my heart beginning to crumble. I know you kept telling me not to expect anything; that you couldn’t offer me what I wanted. But how could you have known that you were made up of those very things I expected in the person I thought I could fall for? They’re not something you can offer someone in return for their expectations, are they? They can’t be given or taken. Virtues, qualities, and quirks. They’re just there. Waiting to be discovered. Those little things you say and do that make you. The things that make you smile or let loose a laugh that rises right from the bottom of your stomach. The things that make you flare up in anger. The things that move you. They all snuck up on me. You snuck up on me.

It wasn’t your promises I fell for, for you never offered any. It wasn’t the thought (a thought I drove out of my mind often) of having you as anything more than a friend, for you never said you’d be anything else. Stupid fucking me. I should’ve seen this coming. And I would’ve if only stars hadn’t settled in my eyes and my feelings weren’t running free, like unshackled wild horses. A very dramatic metaphor that, isn’t it? Hunh. Believe me, this is not how I wanted to react. For fuck’s sake, I didn’t expect to react at all. I hate all this. This temporary pause in my fabric of time where it feels like I will continue to remain alone. This knowledge that it took me long enough to find you and the loss of will to keep on looking with the diminishing hope that I might find someone else. This feeling that maybe I shouldn’t have pushed you as hard or cornered you as much with the things I said and the things I left unsaid. Then maybe, just maybe, you would be telling another woman that you’re falling for someone else. And that someone could maybe, just maybe, have been me.

I’m torn between being hurt and being amused about the fact that I feel so strongly about you. It’s ridiculous. We hardly know each other. I’m struggling to find an explanation. What made it so easy for me to fall for you? God knows, there was everything that should’ve stopped me. The distance, the unfamiliarity, the negligible amount of time we spent with each other and of course, you being far away from feeling the way I was feeling. What? What the fuck was it then, which gave you the tools to chip away at my wall?

The bitch of it all is that you’ve been nothing but nice to me. I wish you hadn’t. It’d have been so much easier for me to emotionally storm out of all this. Damn you. For letting me see what you are made of. Now I’m going to have to do something I hate. I’m going to have to look for flaws in you. So I can try and fill the cons side of the list that has your name on top. Pick you apart till I find something insignificantly revolting about you that I can blow out of proportion and sell to my heart. If only they sold glasses that would make this world that has you in it look ugly.


With what could’ve been all my love,

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Lady Jughead lives and writes in the city she loves and hates, Bombay. Without meaning to and harbouring mixed feelings about it (You’ll see the irony in just a bit), she’s forever wandering in the murkiness that exists between straight and gay, clear and clueless, butch and femme, cute and hot, and genius and insane. All of which leave her with a question that often occupies a significant portion of her cognitive capacity – is she Just Perfect or is she falling fast into the deep chasm of obscurity called Just Average?
Lady Jughead

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