“Why aren’t you married to me yet?” He asked one time, complete with laughing blue eyes and a cheeky smile.
I don’t quite remember what it was that I was doing. I probably said something amusing, or stupid or both.
But I smiled and looked at him and dared, “ask me.”
And in that moment, in the quiet of a normal mid afternoon, with the jostling background noise of the city streets below, in that dingy studio apartment I used to scrape by to afford - we really did think we’d end up together. We were no one, a pair of 20-somethings with idealistic dreams and a snobbish self-entitled depth, we shared nothing but youth, innocence, lust over cheap wine and an unhealthy obsession over each other’s laughs. We were in love. The kind you only get once in your life, when the world has only tainted you with its promises of happy endings and first loves.
Looking back now, in a way he did ask me. Not so much in words but in feelings. Those blue eyes, that cheeky smirk, the way he swept over me from across the room. He didn’t say the words but I felt them. And to be quite honest, back then, I would have said yes. Undoubtedly, unabashedly, wantonly yes.
But life happens, as you know. He broke my heart before he even had the chance to ask.