We never spoke much but whenever we did we had meaningful, deep conversation that allowed us, or so I think, to connect on a level so intense other people don't get to it even if they've been friends for years. I greet everyone with a smile and a cheerful "Hey" but I greeted you like a soldier coming home from war, and you, indifferent to anyone else, would crack a smile when you saw my face. Thus I might have mistaken a friendship for something else, or maybe you felt it, too. Maybe it just hung in the air but the spring breeze was too intense and it flew away. The only thing that lingered after it were just my ink stained fingers, the notebooks that slowly started to fill the drawer, the click of the keyboard as I soon found out thee feelings can't only be contained on paper. 

I guess it was short lived. Or maybe nothing at all.

Yet you listened to me going on and on about some poets who are already 6 feet under, and I listened to you raving about some Victorian writer. Then I went on to talk about Taylor Swift and asked you, "Pretty please, give her a try." And you did, I sent you a playlist! And then told me that you still weren't a fan but "to give her the benefit of the doubt, not all her songs are as bad as you had previously thought and that most of them were deep cuts". You talked about some indie band that bored me to death when I tried to listen it. And then our conversations had evolved. You started complimenting me in ways that caught me off-guard, and sometimes I hadn't caught them at all until hours later when I ran back all the words we'd said. I started to open up about my insecurities and you laughed them out. You said that I was thinking too much about other people who weren't smart enough to make me feel small.

But somewhere between the lines, the snow melted and the flowers bloomed. I looked at them in awe and when I turned to show you... you were gone! Now, it's summer and the sun browns my skin as I write another line about a short lived... what? It was never a love affair, nor a friendship, and definitely not simply an aquaintanceship. Well, I write another line about a winter that shaped the way I left 16 behind and walked into 17. And I look at the calendar, it's August, just a moment of time before the leaves turn those brilliant colours and then fall off the branches. I think about why I still write. I think it's just my green light but then again, I think I managed to leave you behind somewhere in May when there still was shade and not this unbearable heat that makes it so hard to breathe. Maybe I write just for the sheer thrill of it. Because it stopped hurting to think about you and now it's fun to write about the feelings that used to make me loose sleep. 

Yes, it was short lived. And I guess I'm over it.