Regrets are terrible things. They’re like pieces of glass littering a beach. As you roam back over your memories it’s all warm and soft until you feel the sharp slice of them through your feet. They hold so much power. What could my life have been if only I had followed my heart, held my nerve, chased my dreams? The path you took will never be as exciting or fulfilling as the one that passed you by.
Unrequited love. It sounds so…dramatic doesn’t it? Like something from a novel or a film: “l’ll never love again!” she cried breathlessly. Unrequited love is champagne tears and silk gloves and morose diamonds in the moonlight. It’s mourning and yearning and summers in Paris in the arms of another lover. It’s sending away breakfast and picking at dinner and waiting for the hopeful ding of the postman’s bell. It’s an affliction of youth: a brief, sweet, bitter wail of despair, strong in its turn but swift to abate.
“So…so, let me get this straight. You went to a party at her boyfriend’s house. You got very, very drunk. You told her you loved her. And later you were sick on your hands.” “And on my coat. And a bit on the carpet.”
I’ve never had a crush on a friend. I guess in a way it was inevitable. You make friends with people because you click with them and if you fancy them too…well, why wouldn’t you give love a go? The best romances often spin out of a strong friendship: like and love are two sides of the same coin, after all.
I don’t want anyone to freak out or anything here, but I think I may have found happiness. I know, quick! Bottle it! Sell it! Spray it on children! Spray it on Tories! Dunk Trump in a pool of the stuff and just vacuum pack him in there like a little carrot.