Project Being Woman

Post # 30

If there’s one thing I have regretted more than anything else in my life, it was falling in love with a writer.

He would notice how my mouth would curl, very slightly, to the left side when I would just begin to become annoyed. He would notice how my hair would slightly twist at the ends when I slept longer than every day, and how the tiny, otherwise unrecognizable blush would creep up my cheeks when someone would give me a compliment. He would notice how my nose would scrunch up in distaste whenever I saw that guy I thoroughly disliked, and how my fingers would involuntarily curl into a fist when I saw the girl with bruises on her cheek from her father’s rage. He would discern my toes curling inside my shoe whenever my chance to speak in front of an audience would be near, and would slowly take my hand and say,“Sarah, You’ll do great”.

All of this intentness used to unsettle me, and one fine day, I decided to break up.

He’d ask me about the evil glint in my eyes whenever I was about to do something that I thought to be clever. He would ask me why do I lie awake till dawn and sleep into the noon without any reason. He would ask me why I cry every time I see a puppy whimpering in pain, until I told him one day about the pet I had lost when I was five. He’d question my fascination with the constellations and with certain names I liked. He would always want to know why I loved him, never quite accepting anything in his life without an explanation, for once in his life.

All of his curiosity seemed to get on my nerves, and one fine day, I decided to break up.

He would write poems on how I was an independent soul, never in need of another person to hold me up. He would write stories on what might have happened if I hadn’t done what I had done, even for the smallest of my decisions. He would write sonnets about how his hands fit perfectly into mine.

All of this attention started to annoy me, and one fine day, I decided to break up.

Since then, I have tried to fall in love again regularly, because honestly, falling in love with him was the worst thing I had ever done.

But whenever I tried, naturally, I compared the guy I was trying to fall for, with him.

None of the guys looked into my eyes, straight to my soul, and voiced for me, my deepest insecurities. None of the guys looked at me enough to know what my gestures said, and I had to speak too much to explain. None of the guys were ever inquisitive about why I did what I did, and about how I loved the constellations but hated lone stars. None of those guys wrote a poem on how beautiful I looked on that first day of March, in my simple saree, devoid of makeup, because makeup hid too much of my face, and my emotions couldn’t be seen straight.

That fine day, when I broke up with him, I didn’t know what I had to lose.

And yes, I regret falling in love with a writer, because that writer set up the standards too high, and now no other guy seems to be fit enough.

I regret falling in love with a writer, because he noticed too much, questioned too much, and gave me too much attention.

And most of all, I regret falling in love with a writer, because he ruined me, without even touching me, for everyone else.

AnanyaDasgupta

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