Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

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(Continued from Fade In)CC Image courtesy of Lorenzoclick on Flickr

‘I think you should reply.’

Lucy’s the first to say this.  Beatrice, probably because she’d seen first hand the state I was in when I was replying to his messages, had been unequivocal in her advice.  My mother, ditto.  So I’m a bit thrown.

‘Oh… really?’

‘Yeah, why not?’

Because the guy put me on Nytol and I don’t want to go there again.  Because for two weeks I’ve been miserable bordering on depressed.  Because, this way, I’ve regained a little bit of ground.  I’ve won.

As if reading my mind, she goes on, ‘I don’t think there are any winners and losers in this scenario….’

No?

‘… only losers.’

I laugh. ‘Thanks Lucy.’

Her fiancé pipes up, ‘You have to ask yourself Anna, if you don’t reply, will you always regret it?  Will you always wonder what might’ve been?’

 

Beatrice calls the next day, and in passing I mention that I’m thinking of replying to VP.  We agree it’s fine, if I think I can handle it. I’ve just had some good news at work so I think I can handle anything.

‘It’ll be fine,’ I say.

There’s no way it will be fine, but at least this way, I’ll regret nothing.  Right?

CC Image courtesy of duncan on Flickr

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Fade In

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CC Image courtesy of distopiandreamgirl on Flickr

After two weeks of not having heard from VP I’m finally starting to move on. No more waking up and glancing at my phone expectantly. I go whole days without looking at his profile or re-reading old messages. OK there might be the odd cry on the Northern line, and for ten consecutive evenings I do absolutely nothing with myself, and the irony of baking an elaborate cake on the day which happens to be his birthday isn’t entirely lost on me. But by day fourteen, I’m getting back on track. I even go on a date and resist the urge to compare it to the incomparable. That, I tell myself, was another life. A fantasy. And anyway, he’s gone. I have to get over it.

 

Monday morning. My flatmate is back from holiday and the creak of the bathroom floor wakes me. I put out my arm, a beam of sunlight catching the dial of my watch. Half an hour before I have to get up.

 

This was one of the things which, in the course of the past week, had gone back to normal. The Nytol I’d purchased circa Second Date was now gathering dust on the bedside table. In fact, things had gone to the other extreme: bed by ten and multiple snoozed alarms. An extra half hour of sleep would be enjoyed, luxuriated in.

 

I roll over and that’s when I see it, the small pulsating light. I run through a short mental list of people it might be, and an even shorter list of people it won’t, and swipe the screen.

(TO BE CONTINUED

CC Image courtesy of Anthony!! on Flickr

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No Man’s Land

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CC Image courtesy of rafa59(II) on Flickr

Rachel takes my arm.  ‘Soooo what’s new?  Tell me about the love life!’

I spread my hands.  ‘There’s nothing.’

And for the first time in a long time a) I mean it, and b) I don’t mind.  Really.  It’s bliss: no frantic checking of the phone, no sleepless nights, no frittering away hours on Facebook.  I spend my evenings seeing friends, running, dancing, and writing.  Life is good.

I say nothing.  What I mean is that I’m enjoying what can only be described as a low-level crush.  It barely impacts on my day-to-day life; it is merely a pleasant thought which drifts in and out of my mind.  Admittedly, it helps that Crush isn’t on Facebook (what IS it with these guys?!), so I can’t stalk him. I have his number but don’t feel tempted to use it, ever, perhaps because I know I might see him soon; or perhaps because I’ve learnt something in the course of the past year, namely that if a guy is interested he will make it happen. So I don’t think about it..  I have his number but don’t feel tempted to use it, ever, perhaps because I know I might see him soon; or perhaps because I’ve learnt something in the course of the past year, namely that if a guy is interested he will make it happen.  So I don’t think about it.

‘It’s so liberating,’ I say, ‘not being hung up on someone!’

Rachel smiles.  ‘Mmm.’

We walk on in silence down The Mall, heading for Victoria.   It’s a beautiful, balmy September evening.

As we pass the palace I wonder idly if Harry is home.  I keep this thought to myself, for Rachel is currently of the opinion that I am grounded and sensible – she hasn’t seen the blog – and, for one night only, so am I.

CC Image courtesy of Niquinho on Flickr