For the very first time, you held my hand the other day. I moved away because I didn’t know if it was what I wanted anymore. Butterflies in my stomach, I told you, “What took you so long to realise?” You didn’t say anything. We continued walking in our own paths, not touching, not making any eye contact, not saying a word.

“I knew. All along, I knew.” You gently nudged my hands again and swiftly pulled me closer by holding me at my waist.

This time, I didn’t move away.

I felt that tingling feeling from your cold fingers. It felt nice, but it felt strange too.

You sent me back that night. We reached my door step, our fingers still interlaced. I haven’t figured if this is what we should be doing, but I stood there while you held me. I didn’t budge. I didn’t push you away. I didn’t want to. I wanted to know what I was feeling.

That night. I was confused. I’ve always wanted you to hold me, and you never did until that day. Instead of feeling excited for that kiss you might plant on my cheek, I was worried. I’m sure you felt my anxiety when I turned away as you came close.

“I had fun tonight, thank you, for being you.” You said to me, looking into my eyes, while I was finding ways to look away.

My heart ached as I took a step back. I walked through the door with a simple goodbye. That was it. All the excitement built up within me for the past one year, somehow it wasn’t there anymore. I’ve always wanted this. Or so I thought. But I guess I got tired of waiting for you to notice me. Subconsciously, I got so tired, I got over it. Over you. Finally. So now what?

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