I was young, and the four years you had on me made you look worldly and much more handsome than you already were (you didn’t need to be better looking, my heart skipped a beat every time I looked at you). We always stayed in a coffee shop in Glorietta, a 15 min ride from your place, a 2 hour drive from mine. (Even then, there were metaphors: you could never meet me in the middle). I always had chamomile tea, and you always bought a cappuccino; I thought it a quaint ritual, you never thought about it at all. Back then I wished for your love and would have settled for your disdain; I could never stand your indifference.
There is always something about first love. Even now, looking back, there is pain, in that singular way nostalgia and regret inflicts pain, but I embrace the sensation: my thoughts are my own. You are no longer important to me, except for that part of you, , part of , that remains in my memories.