The Kiss is Always Where it Falls Apart
With my seasonal depression, the yearning for a relationship comes up every once in a while. I dust off my dating apps, using the same words that led to fast openers in the past. This time, I'm brave enough to include things that I think might lead to something more. I never embellish, though. My degree and my smile have always been enough. For good measure, I even add a photo with my new highlights.
I know enough not to be the one to start conversations. Not to be too eager. Some messages trickle in, but still I respond like I'm returning a ball in a tennis match.
Each notification feels louder, begging to be answered, since I know the heat rises with every message. It’s the nature of dating, I know. There are only so many questions about your ideal date you can answer before logic stands that you should actually go out, or the same five photos you’ve been staring at in the photo gallery start to wear out.
It would be easy to stay behind the safety of a screen, but of course, that would be naive.
I’m not scared of rejection. I’m scared they’ll choose me. Because then I have to be something I know I can’t be.
Classic bootcut jeans. Light, flowy top showing just enough cleavage. I do this to feel confident, but I don’t think about this version of me being his first impression.
The flow of drinks is an atmosphere in which I can adapt. He laughs. I laugh. A coffee date might turn into a night downtown with a mug of beer if the vibes are good.
Then. The inevitable happens. He kisses me. And in the most romantic of moments I remember why I find solace in my singleness.
The kiss is always when it falls apart for me. No matter how many laughs we’ve shared or how confident I am in my feelings — even if I could scream from the rooftops he is the one — I am always left gasping for air from the forced pressing of lips. It’s so biological, absent of the magic the movies promise. For me, at least. I always wonder if they feel my body stiffen.
Except, I know the answer, because there were times they wanted more. And I wonder how long I can keep this charade up. Hand against my hips, shorter breaks between pecks.
I squeeze my fingers together as tight as possible to gain composure.
With muddled words, barely understanding them myself, I release myself from what comes next.
Once home, I wrap myself in my biggest hoodie. In the mirror, I'm someone I recognize again. My body is my own. Not for anyone else to share. My body is my protector, holding the secrets my mind can’t bear.
Next time I'll write the word in my profile. Or I'll say it aloud.
In the quiet corner of my brain, where I occupy the most space, I feel weightless again.