Untitled, By Unknown

4: The Joining, Meetings and Separation

Writing time: 27th- 29th October 2016

It's the end... but the moment has been prepared for-' The Fourth Doctor (Tom Baker), Doctor Who, Logopolis, 1981. The end of his seven series on the show starting in 1974, the longest running Doctor. Yet thirty-five years on after a certain vote, his words have become appropriate again. Wait, hang on. Inappropriate. That's what I meant.

The Wednesday. Day four of talking to him. Surprisingly, it was going incredibly well.

We'd already made plans to meet up twice- which is odd, considering we hadn't met once. One gathering had been arranged for his birthday the following Tuesday (so yes, I was technically 'seeing' [although not yet seeing] somebody underage, even though it was for less than a week. I feel this thought process bothered me more than it should- but then again, I worry too much over rule-breaking), but he also needed to be in town on the Friday, so he came up with the relatively obvious idea of suggesting I join him prematurely to our initial meeting.
Since the Monday where we'd said we'd both date the other in time (which was pretty damn fortunate) we'd been casually flirting with one another- an experience I was not used to, yet still greatly enjoyed. However, this would lead to something...eventful.
In response to the generic exchange of: 'You're adorable'/ 'So are you (heart emoji)', he'd said:
"We're such a cute couple."
Wait, couple? We weren't a couple- yet. Did he want us to be, or was he just using the word couple in a way that was perfectly innocent but still fucked with me? Probably the latter, though I couldn't be sure. So I decided to probe him (oh god, that sounds wrong. It's a bit early for that [sorry, sorry]).
"Wait, couple? Are we making it official?"
To which he replied:
"What?"
Well, that answers my previous question. Still, I persevered, and explained myself. And he said yes.
Wow. First relationship with a boy- and a pretty cute one at that. And it had only taken four days, and technically I'd asked him. All the monumental achievements were coming through- well, monumental for me.

Friday hit. Painfully, like being punched by a racist. Which was basically how I woke up. Just to give context, this was June 24th 2016- results day for the U.K.'s EU referendum.
I'd set an alarm for about nine, having agreed to meet my boyfriend (oh yeah, I had a boyfriend now!) about twelve. Which sounds early, but you've got to consider both the bus and the inordinate amount of time it can take me to leave my bed in the morning. Of course, this meant I awoke at 7:30. (Seriously?) Immediately-well, almost- I sprang to my iPad, going to check the results. I went to Facebook, knowing it would be the main topic of conversation. And on the right of the screen, there it was, trending- we'd voted to leave. Shit.
(Incidentally, at the time, did the position of the trending article on the list of what's popular on Facebook have any relevance? Because it was third on the list. No idea what one and two were, but if it does have an impact- fucking seriously, internet? Pick your priorities. Anyway...)
Around 15 minutes later, I received a message from the emo, stating in eloquent terms how she felt about the outcome. It simply read:
"I win you fucker!" No comma. That is written exactly how it was spelt.
Thank god I'd woken up early. I would have hated to check my screen after being roused by my alarm only to find that. Of all the ways to break the news... but that was irrelevant. It was a crash of civilization, true. Yet for now I didn't care. I had much more important things (well, to me) to consider- my date.

Due to my anxious nature, I arrived twenty minutes early and stood waiting in the bus station, leaning against a post with music blaring in my ears. Would I recognise him? Would I like him? Would he like me? Of course, these worries would have been short-lived... if he hadn't been a fucking hour late.
He had to pick up his new glasses, then the bus was late, etcetera, etcetera. Which was fine, but it left me waiting, heart pounding, fear growing exponentially by the minute. Eventually, I found myself practically zoned out when I became aware of somebody located in front of me. I looked up, rapidly ripping my headphones from my ears. There stood a slightly overweight ginger boy with a smile on his face, giggling slightly at my ignorance and slightly too quick recovery. My boyfriend. I hoped. A bit different from the picture. Not as skinny, and you could kind of tell he wasn't genetically male. Ah.
"I saw the Doctor Who hoodie. Guessed it was you."
Yeah, the voice gave it away too. Did I care? Well... slightly, but I didn't want to. It might have helped if I gave myself more than five seconds to judge. So I did. Put those thoughts to one side, and walked out the bus station with him. Talking. Laughing, a bit. Enjoying it.
We spent the day just wandering around, chatting- partially about the referendum (we were both in favour of remaining). This, of course, consisted primarily of bemoaning the general idiocy of 51.9% of the British electorate. Lunch came in the shape of McDonald's- where he spat fries in my face. It's a wonderful thing, really, to see the look of horror on your new boyfriend's face as he realises that he has just launched his food towards his partner at a pretty decent speed, followed by the immediate hysterics you both break into. After a few hours, we reached a bench and started discussing plans for the following Tuesday. I suggested the cinema, to which he responded by saying he couldn't afford it. Naturally I offered to pay without a second thought. To that, he began to look at me strangely, and said:
"See, it's not like I can call you a fuckboy, because you're just being nice."
A peculiar compliment, but a compliment nonetheless. Sure, I'll take it.
As we bade goodbye at the bus station, there was an awkward moment of the conditions of the farewell. How intimate should we get? I decided 'fuck it' and went for a hug- and was accepted. Good, otherwise it would have been really weird.

Tuesday arrived. But before the date, the final school assembly. Which was to be bullshit- or so I presumed. It turned out not to be a dreary lecture, but instead a wonderful recap of our five years there, with good music, non-embarrassing singing teachers and only slightly humiliating pictures. For practically the first time, I didn't want to go. Then came the shirt signing, a painfully sentimental moment yet one that made the morning perfect.
On the way home, from which I would travel to the bus stop, I walked with a minor gathering of friends, who had a mild interest in the new development in my life. The occasional sexual joke was made though I could quickly disprove them by mentioning the whole trans thing. This caused some problems.
"Personally, until they have the surgery, I wouldn't call them he or whatever," one said, too casually for my liking. "I'd probably just say 'it', I guess." Awkward. Yet another nodded their agreement. I was shocked.
"Well, you stay away from my boyfriend then," I retaliated with attempted malice. I soon left the group, but found myself marvelling at how protective I'd got in such a short time. Is this what caring for someone was like? I'd quite forgotten.
I reached town, met up with him, supplying a gift of chocolate as had been mentioned in the previous night's conversation. We spent even more time just ambling about- he bought a record (which was difficult to transport around and store in the cinema), we saw a film (one I'd already seen, but still decent) and soon the day was done. We parted ways once more, and I was left with one, optimistic thought: Things are going well.