Don't Fall in Love with a Passer by: A Tale of a Broken Wandering Heart

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It was our first date. I was three hours late. Unlike the others, I know, I just know this will be different. You’re fasting. It was the end of Ramadan.

I can’t forget that angry look in your face that might have scared that side of Malaysia. You looked so manly outside that Mexican restaurant. I bit the insides of my lips. You smiled. You said I was forgiven. I still felt guilty.

You didn’t make me pay for my share of our meal. You looked ruthlessly manly in your over six feet frame. I looked like a bit of an overweight Asian dwarf in my not so long legs. I wondered how warm it will feel inside your arms.

You’re wickedly witty. I felt insufficient. I’m just a blondie.

I made you watch that sappy movie I know you loathed. I cried and you wiped my tears away. I was right. Your chest felt home. As warm as those Ikea duvets. As comfortable as wool socks. As heavenly as hot chocolate by the fireplace during one of those dark, cold winter nights.

You drove me home. We bid each other goodnight and said nothing after.

It was good but scary. It was ordinary but different. It was strange but not a biggie.

I heard nothing from you the day after. A week passed, nothing. One, two, three months passed and still nothing. I shrugged it off. I thought I felt magic.

I went to Thailand. Came back with a nice tan and somehow different view about life. I messaged you and almost had a heart attack when you replied. We chatted over dinner and movie and yes, coffee even if it’s close to midnight. Why we lost contact, we both wanted to strangle each other. Our meeting each other halfway didn’t work. A massive failure for a guessing game. We laughed it off and picked things up from where we left them off.

My tan faded away, we got closer. Maybe it’s your religion. You don’t drink nor party. Such a breath of fresh air for this life of the party. You made Malaysia felt more home.

“You make me feel happy. I want to make you happy.” was your Syrian way of telling me what I mean to you. I was waiting for the three magic words. Romantic fool you haven’t guessed. Nearly one year of dating you made me feel like an adult who got my shit together. But those three words, I failed to hear. Patience meant nothing to me but I waited. I thought patience can’t be learned.

On the last few months of your PhD, you started talking about kids. Where to raise them because Syria can’t be it at the moment. I was happy. I went through my days with hearts in my eyes until panic gotten all over me. My life, hopes and dreams flashed in front of me. I’m not ready to bid freedom goodbye. I ran away. Hid. Cried. But hey! I tried winning you back. “Please play away from me.” were your last five words of goodbye.

Part 1 is here.

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*Don’t Fall in Love with a Passer by: A Tale of a Broken Wandering Heart is about my attempt to be with someone while on search of purpose and happiness.*