Another boy with brown hair

I’ve been twisting my ring around my finger incessantly. I know I have. I’ve been crossing and uncrossing my legs, twirling my hair and playing with the stem of my drink continuously. I know I have. 

I feel like a goldfish, constantly swimming, unable to stop, with eyes constantly watching. Every inch of my body doesn’t want to be here. Its fight or flight set in the moment the make up set into my skin and the curlers twirled round my hair. Why was I doing this again. About to give another piece of my soul to a boy with brown hair.

But this boy with the brown hair, he felt different this time. He had a drink waiting for me at the table. He seemed as nervous and vocalised it all the same. We sat, we spoke, we laughed. I could have cried, so could he. It might have felt electric, if I wasn’t dulling the current. Rejecting the feelings bubbling in the pit of my stomach. I learnt to repress any and all feelings from it a long time ago. I can compartmentalise its needs from the functions of my body. I wish I could say the same for my mind, which posesses Olympic rate athleticism. 

I felt quiet in his company, seen. A boy articulating every feeling, emotion and value that swirled through my own mind. God it was terrifying. 

When we parted, I was smiling. I continued smiling until I couldn’t bare the idea of it anymore.