the architecture of false hope

I can fill the days with my feelings for you, paint the sky pink and purple and take you to my favourite place in Delhi and ruin it for myself forever

when you’re in love with someone, all you do is think of their name. even when you’re saying someone else's name, what your mouth wants to really say is their name. when your head hurts, you think the pain would go away if they were here. when your back aches and you’re thinking of booking a massage, what you’re really thinking of - are their hands. you’re thinking of how much better it would feel if they touched you, how you’d really be able to open up and say everything you really mean, and that if there was really a god, he wouldn’t punish you for falling in love again.

part of you knows that it’s a well-constructed delusion of your mind. turns out they’re not very generous as you’re imagining them to be. turns out their love language isn’t physical touch. they fell in love with you a long time ago, too - with another well-constructed delusion of you - this time that they had created in their mind, and that all fell to pieces once they got to know you. once again, reality beat love to death.

how long does it take someone to move forward? to be able to say - actually, I’m not in love with anyone. there’s no one that makes my heart beat faster and makes me want to hold hands even when they’re sweaty. there’s no one who’s day I’m interested in - and oh, actually, that awful movie about aviation - I don’t even rewatch it anymore so I have an excuse to think about him.

it starts the moment you realise that he’s not thinking about you at all. that of course, you’ve landed yourself up in another perfect little unrequited affair.

I know how I love now. I cling like a child. Like someone who’ll watch you when you use your phone in bed. And look at you, with a face full of yearning. Like a body that’s adamant about making sure you’re always feeling better than I am, that you’re happier, and more fulfilled. I’m someone who’d give you the bigger slice of the cake I like, especially when the cake is scarce, especially when it’s my favourite flavour. I’d trade my happiness for yours, because seeing you happy would be my happiness anyway.

Which is why moving on is hard. I adorn my body, my house, everything I know that would make you more content, right before you arrive. I don’t take this easily, when I’m in love I’m too invested. I think about my meticulous habits and think of these reels where women are taking care of their families and I wonder if I’ll ever get to use my planning and organisational skills to manage a life with you.

I had a hint of a life like this once. And it was my favorite part of the party. I’d clean up after everyone was home or asleep. I’d go take out the trash and remove the wineglasses and the ashtray and take your wallet and keys and put them on the table. I’d fold your clothes and do everything a lazy person would avoid because the love in my heart would fuel my life. When I’d get in bed, I’d be happier. Happier that the house was cleaner, that I had someone to call home.

Is this how we prove our worthiness to each other? My parents wouldn’t call me domesticated because I still can’t cook, but I can do everything else.

I can love you too much. I can make it work. I can fly a few hours to be with you, even when you don’t make time for me. I can fill the days with my feelings for you, paint the sky pink and purple and take you to my favourite place in Delhi and ruin it for myself forever. I think of good weather and I think of you and I think about how you’re not texting me every waking moment, even though I’m amazing, and I realise that’s enough to make me want to stop.

I read somewhere that grief is the privilege of being in love, and I guess you’re not that affected by my absence because it wasn’t love for you at all, was it? It was boredom and curiosity and delusion, and those things fade away.

I’m such a fool to fall in love with you,

I’m been such a fool again.