When my newfound friends found out I am dating someone I used to be with for about eight-nine months roughly eight years ago (yes, even before this blog started), they were rightfully confused. Even I was confused.
I mean, whenever i would recall my past breakups, the breakup with this guy was the one I regretted the least. I mean, he was not the kindest person back then. That's what I'd thought to myself, at least. But I remember loving him dearly, with all the heart my eighteen-year-old self could possibly give.
And then the pieces of the puzzle started coming together. He moved to the South for me when we were together. I couldn't catch a ride back home, and was in the middle of Pasay, and I remember him being so worried about me. And all those little things. I was crazy about him.
Until I was not. Stuff happened, and I fell out of love in a snap. Ours was the stuff of love stories in college. I loved him, then I hated him for hating on my best friend. But that love felt real.
Fast forward to today, where I spend my weekends overnight with him, huddled in bed, and where I meet his friends occasionally, and where I go to church with him. And all of it, all of this, brings me back to that time when I truly felt genuine care for someone.
I have to admit, it feels good. After more than a year of being single and dating around, and failing to develop feelings that ripen into love, it does feel strange to worry about and want the best for someone again.
It feels good, and it feels dangerous.
What if this does not work out? What if I end up hurting? What if I am into him more than he is into me? All these questions stir up weird insecurities I thought I had gotten over with. And i often have to slap myself back to reality.
And tell myself: you're alright. And if it this does not work out, then at least you felt felt love--or something that approximates it--again.
Maybe it will work out, maybe it won't. I guess I'll have to see.