nobody said it was easy
Times change. Teenagers now study organic chemistry and the structure of newfangled scientific things in secondary school, when they used to have to wait till junior college, even university, or maybe never. It’s easy to think that times have changed, and yet, the fresh faces of yesterday remain the same. In the same way everyone puzzles over pointless problems, sits in Starbucks and tries to study (and failing miserably, while bumping into friends and getting up to go to the toilet every five minutes), frankly admitting they don’t listen in lectures or tutorials, panicking on a Sunday night because they haven’t done their homework. For those who have walked this road before, everything seems so familiar. “Back then” is a phrase used to describe memories that belong firmly at the back of your head, except they get called up ever so often, and only whenever you see things that are so achingly familiar you cannot help but wonder where the time goes. And that is the thing: does the time go anywhere, or nowhere at all? Are we still doing the same things, only differently? Or should they be different things, only done the same way? The life of a student, it seems, never really changes. The paths and experiences are the same, down to the boy who gallantly gives up his seat to the pretty girl asking him about organic chemistry, all blunt bangs and a dazzling smile. There is a blush, a faint sigh, the small sound of “Is this okay,” whispered, and then - she sits down. Everything is slightly awkward, quiet and loud at the same time, and each tries to cover that palpable space with impulsive brashness. Let’s talk about statistics instead, okay? And then everyone bends over the equation and begins anew. He’s doing her work, now, instead of his own. A stranger opposite them smiles knowingly and sees through the games they play.
Young love is always fun to watch. It’s amusing and awkward, and those who have been through it-well, they know how it plays out. Not everyone gets to have stereotyped fairytale endings, and yet the songs and tales of heartbreak are as common as they come. Either way, everyone you’ve loved ends up at the same place; that halfway house in between friendship and love that firmly belongs in the past tense. Over. Done with, no more. Sometimes there is contact, most of the time there isn’t. As soon as you think you will get past the memories, somebody will ask, “Do you remember…?”, and immediately, there is a pang in your heart reminding you: this is why we can’t be friends. As you laugh nervously and think of ways to excuse yourself and make this end faster, eventually you stop short as you get up and walk away, and say: I’m sorry, this won’t work out, we’re nothing now. We had something, but now it’s nothing, and we can’t ever be anything. The thing that binds you is gone, and even though you know both of you have the same memories of bending over organic chemistry equations together, and you’ll continually retell the story of your first love to your present and future loves, maybe smile awkwardly with a painful quirk of your lips-it’s still something you can only retell. Flip through it like the pages of a book, as the memories within fade and yellow. It’s a story, not a dream. It can’t be rewritten, nor can it be relived.
Or: maybe with somebody else this time. The same thing, in a different way. Maybe one day it’ll all pan out like you think it should.
Young love is always fun to watch. It’s amusing and awkward, and those who have been through it-well, they know how it plays out. Not everyone gets to have stereotyped fairytale endings, and yet the songs and tales of heartbreak are as common as they come. Either way, everyone you’ve loved ends up at the same place; that halfway house in between friendship and love that firmly belongs in the past tense. Over. Done with, no more. Sometimes there is contact, most of the time there isn’t. As soon as you think you will get past the memories, somebody will ask, “Do you remember…?”, and immediately, there is a pang in your heart reminding you: this is why we can’t be friends. As you laugh nervously and think of ways to excuse yourself and make this end faster, eventually you stop short as you get up and walk away, and say: I’m sorry, this won’t work out, we’re nothing now. We had something, but now it’s nothing, and we can’t ever be anything. The thing that binds you is gone, and even though you know both of you have the same memories of bending over organic chemistry equations together, and you’ll continually retell the story of your first love to your present and future loves, maybe smile awkwardly with a painful quirk of your lips-it’s still something you can only retell. Flip through it like the pages of a book, as the memories within fade and yellow. It’s a story, not a dream. It can’t be rewritten, nor can it be relived.
Or: maybe with somebody else this time. The same thing, in a different way. Maybe one day it’ll all pan out like you think it should.