Just this morning, I was jacked up on my post-school run high, still some hours before work, whirl winding through the kitchen, wording All Too Well as I made chicken karhai.

Not a Taylor Swift fan growing up, appreciating the tender openness to heartbreak in my mid-30s. And general a pop-fiend now.

**

And now it's nearly midnight and I have the sudden urge to type out a story about a Boy, one I don't feel pleasant recalling, and visibly flinch upon memory. 

Being in my 30s has let me put my guard down, and admit things to myself I never could in my 20s. Like how I was the Jake G. to someone's Taylor Swift. It was before K, and from a boy we'll call C.

C and I met in the most fabulous year of my life. The unpredictable, unfettered version of ourselves unleased in 6 months of the best times and the best people I ever met. C and I hit it off from the start, not the first time a boy gave me attention, but a special kind of attention that made me feel smart, precious, warm. There were endless meetings, evenings perusing news magazines, law tutoring sessions, uncovering feelings and wishes. There was harmless foot-stomping, there was affection. Unravelling under moonlit discussions. A bonafide camaraderie of sorts. With uncomfortable parts in between when I would be asked to show my cards. I wasn't ready. I didn't know if this was what I wanted. It was the first time I had been unfettered from the yoke of Brown Parents, free to do and be as I please. I was just figuring out myself. There were post-event meetups and texting. There was a list of to-dos on weekends, and he would add remembering him on the list. Maybe I led him on, maybe I made him feel as if this thing was bigger than just getting to know each other.

But K can into the landscape, and I was annihilated. It was a plateau from then onwards and I wanted to forget any other boy in existence. K was a dream wrapped into a person. and by some God damn miracle, he talked to me. and we shared car rides. I asked for his number. the texting rolled out into hundreds of texts a day. We even got caught by a Professor who confiscated his phone. He just got a new phone and we picked up the thread. (but this isn't about that love story)

C was always in the background, visibly upset. Other friends were involved. I was told I was marriage material for him. Another girl hinted that I wasn't checking on him enough.

Checking for what? I was consumed by K. The flush of my skin, the excitement of my eyes, the desire coursing through my veins shouted everything to everyone around my person.

C and I still shared a few group car rides. All my favorite songs were playing in his car, a result of facebook stalking, undoubtedly. It was a grand gesture, uncovering snow patrol indie. Later, he told me he was upset and whether we should still be friends. I knew it was code for something much bigger. I pretended to be very thick. There was a handholding attempt in a car ride, and like Jake G. I swiped my hand away. At the very end of our course, there was another try, and a hopefulness in C that things might be different after Lahore. He mentioned another girl and how he was still unsure and wanted me to know he was still open to us. 

Cruel, heartless me. I trampled over his hints and axed through his feelings. He was still kind, in his own way: that boy was never cruel. C married a girl he really wanted, so no lasting effects, but, for the time we shared, I still regret not acknowledging or closing something that meant that much.

We still cross paths, and I remain a bit cold, because things have travelled back to me that C's wife isn't a particular fan - for whatever reasons. I don't want to ever let on that we are even amicable - it riles women up and I get it. So there we remain, non-friends. 

**

Ten years have passed, and I wish I can be kinder and gentler to C. A pop song made me realize that sometimes you're the villain in the story.