Much better, much worse.

Whenever I saw her, the breathing coordination class we took together seemed to have been rather futile. They say you can calm your heart down when it busts out its new flamenco moves, by doing just about what we’d learned in class: breathing as lively and greedily as a sleeping baby does. I guess I never really wanted my heart to calm down, though, or she made me forget how to, or maybe it was simply impossible. She truly did take my breath away; each time I saw her, whether nearby or from a distance, she was the pink-haired puppeteer tugging the strings of my heart to make it dance like cherry blossom does when it’s fallen down and the inter-seasonal breeze does its breeze.

Of course I wondered what she would look like naked; the same way I imagine for the moon to wonder what it’s like for its beams to touch the water. Beautiful. Unobtainable. And I still wonder sometimes what it might have been like to touch her lips with mine; the few times I allow myself to imagine it, it’s as intimate as the dew drops on grass roots on an undisturbed morning. I know what you’re thinking, and to answer your question – no, indeed, we have never kissed. It was much better, and much worse, than that.

She’d known about her being a lesbian for quite a while before she started college, and I’d known about my bisexuality since the age of 12. We had both been attracted to women before, yet we fell in love with a woman for the first time when we met each other. And then I left. Never to come back.

Slowly, I have learned how to breathe again. It’s been three and a half years since I left, and it’s been almost one and a half since I last saw her. It has taken me three relapses and about a hundred and seven – give or take two or three – regrets to get me where I am today. I miss her. A lot. But at least, at last, I’ve learned how to breathe again.

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