It’s been three months and ten days since my last entry, partly because my life gets hectic when I’m at school. But I have one more exam to go.

It feels odd being in this situation. The phrase “my boyfriend” sits oddly on my tongue, like a foreign food that I’ve never tasted before. It doesn’t mean it tastes odd, but it does roll of my tongue clumsily sometimes. Now that I think about it, I never referred to my ex that way; he was always referred to by his name, and that never changed, even after the incident. But Will is constantly referred to as my boyfriend, and while it feels odd sometimes, it’s not an unpleasant feeling.

I suppose I need to rewind.

The summer was a lonely one. I was with friends, but I felt all alone; I think it’s because I always had to second-guess their motives. That’s what happens when you stick them in a sexual limbo, and I suppose that’s partly my fault. I wasn’t exactly where I wanted to be, and I needed someone who didn’t expect anything out of me. I was the girl who went to medical school at age seventeen. I was the girl who was a model. I was the girl who could play Sibelius at age sixteen. Etc. But I just needed someone to look at me as who I was personally, not by my abilities.

Will was lonely. He had just moved to Brussels. He was all alone; and he does have particular traits that make him not exactly the most sociable in the world. If I didn’t know the truth I’d have thought he had Asperger’s.

I think it’s only natural that we became close.

Of course, that took a tremendous courage on his part. But for whatever reason, he did see it fit to strike up that courage. We began talking, every day, me sometimes drunk, but always on edge, for I was beginning to develop some possessiveness over him (which some people call crush, but how was I to know) and where could this go? He was nineteen, I was twenty-two, and I had made it a rule never to date anyone under my age… there were so many rules I had made up for myself, and I just could not see this going anywhere, so I kept my guard up.

But he still invaded my world, not knowingly, but he still did. I was vulnerable, as I always had been, feeling low, trying to find someone who smiled just because I was there, who took joy in my happiness. Someone I could feel I could give my life up for, and it didn’t come turbulently, but rather like a shadow, which you only notice after it’s fully there. I had no idea what he even looked like, but I was getting attached to him; he had a vulnerable side underneath the mask he wore, and he showed it to me, timidly, like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis.

I suppose one of the reasons I became attached to him was because of that. He wasn’t asking for love, just that I’d allow him to love me. He was like a bed, always there, ready to catch me if I fell. Demanded nothing of me, accepted me for all my weaknesses and vulnerabilities. He never demanded anything, never asked, always there.

September came. Things happened.

And then he came to visit. He came down to where I live during Columbus Day weekend, since that’s Canadian thanksgiving (they have thanksgiving? For what?), and I had the weekend off. The beginning started off awkwardly; I went to pick him up, and he was sitting there, and considering that I’d never actually met him before, it was very awkward. He’s very shy. We dropped his things off, discovered almost none of his cards worked, and we panicked for a few hours.

After that got sorted out, we walked around town. Went down to the beach on Ohio Street (I think). It was cold, and the wind was blowing in our faces, and there were people jogging around, but for some reason it felt as if there was a bubble around us that kept us separate from everyone else. He held my hand, and I suddenly felt very small (which is a bit of a feat, since I’m 5’9”). My hand felt small in his, our fingers entwined, his hand warm against mine. We sat at the beach, mainly because Lake Michigan is one of the town’s attractions; there was a previous occupant on the ledge, so we sat on the concrete that quickly drops off onto the sand, but as soon as the occupant left we moved to the ledge, facing the water. The wind blew in our faces, and my ears were cold.

There are moments when the silence dominates, and you just have to take a plunge to break it; otherwise it feels like the silence will wrap around you forever. I remember saying shyly (or at least, I felt very shy), looking into his face, and asking him if he remembered the kisses he promised me as a part of a running joke; I had tagged a price on something I did, and that was a kiss, which grew to two, then four, then it started racking up, and by the time October came it was in hundreds. He nodded.

“I think I’d want one now.”

He looked a bit flustered. I knew I had hit out; maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe he wasn’t in the mood. But then he confessed that he had no experience (which wasn’t any news, since I knew I’d be his first girlfriend).

I looked up at him again. I had to; he’s 7 inches taller than me.

“We all have to start somewhere,” I said.

And then our lips locked, and suddenly I wasn’t cold any more. Our lips separated, and he laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“My heart’s beating so fast.”

And it was. I listened to it, my head against his chest, and I could hear it, a fast, steady pulse, telling me that he was a living being, warm, flawed, and open enough to show me. Jack wasn’t so; he expected something of everyone, including himself, as if he could not let his guard down. He demanded perfection of his little world, and when that crumbled, he fell apart. But Will knew he wasn’t perfect; he was aware of his flaws, accepted them, and knew that the world is perfect just the way it is, even in its inherent imperfection. He was living, warm, aging, alive. I was suddenly aware that he was male, and I was female, and that if he decided to he could just take me and I’d be powerless; but I also knew that because he was aware of his imperfections, he’d never fall to the bottom, he’d never let everything go as Jack had. So he’d never do anything without my consent. He never even touched me until I asked him to.

And just like that, layers fell off, one by one, layer by layer, like getting the skins off an onion. A shy smile turned into a broad grin, a timid hold of hand became firmer. The next morning we went to Six Flags after missing the shuttle, and even that was a happy memory despite all the grumblings and inconveniences; he was happy to be there, and so was I, despite the cold (and it really was cold).

Sunday. He was leaving the next morning, and I was aware of each moment, as if I was watching sand fall grain by grain. I was late that morning. We set to meet at ten and I was twenty minutes late; I felt apologetic but when he saw me he had a big grin on his face, and everything was gone. Visiting the Art Institute was an eye-opening experience, partly because if we’d entered myth trivia I’d lose (first ever for me… probably another reason he’s borderline autistic). The sun was shining, and the marathon was going on, and the town was busy and full of bustle. We giggled all the way through modern art (most of which make no sense to us).

There is a little garden next to the Art Institute, where it is canopied by trees planted on elevated ground surrounded by marble which is just the perfect height to sit on. I was tired from all the walking, so we sat on the ledge. The leaves were falling; it was autumn. Kissing occurred almost naturally, our eyes meeting and our lips touching; we got interrupted by a woman who asked for money, and Will, in his superbly good mood, gave her some cash he had (partly to drive her away so we could resume kissing, he said afterwards with a grin). I was intensely aware of his smell, his warmth, his breath, his hands on me, the way his lips locked with mine, the way his dark eyes looked at me.

Lunch was a fun affair; Flat Top Grill is a popular hangout for the students, so we went there. More walking around, and then suddenly it was evening. When it was time for us to say goodbye, I realised I could not. Now that the moment was approaching, I couldn’t let him go. I wanted his hands in my hair, his eyes on me, his mouth on my lips again, his arms around my shoulders.

I couldn’t say that. I felt shy, and I’m not supposed to say things like that; I’m logical, without much emotions, cool and collected. And saying “I don’t want you to go” sounded so squishy. So I asked him to get me home, since it was getting late.

He hesitated.

“Please?”

We stopped by the hostel first, since I had asked for his shirt before he even came down here. He gave me the one he had been wearing the previous day, and it smelled of him; we had to walk from Clinton to La Salle, and we promptly got lost on the way, but eventually we found the station. We went on the train to get home.

And it was as if my brain was finally aware that this person was leaving soon to the place I would not be able to go to on a whim, that this person who had spent so much energy coming to see me was going, that I won’t see him again for some time, perhaps months. I couldn’t just let him go. I kissed him, and he kissed me back, and some glitter from my lipstick had rubbed off, but when I told him that he just laughed and wiped it off. I kissed him again. And again. As if I could stock up on kisses to last me until the next time our lips met, our hands became entwined.

He met my mother that evening, since she invited him in for tea; and he sat rigidly, shy again, meeting the mother of the girl he was seeing. I left him a little souvenir in his pocket, and then my mother and I walked him back to the station. I went onto the platform while my mother waited downstairs. We stood by the exit.

“I love you,” he said.

It might not have been the first he said; I can’t remember. Probably not. But my mind was screaming that the train might leave any time, taking him away from me. I kissed him again. His lips were dry, soft. Another kiss, followed by another. And another. I was in his arms, and it was as if I had my duvet around me, making me feel safe and warm.

Apparently I asked him to make the kisses lighter, because it had a certain effect on me. I don’t remember saying it, but then again, he’s the one with the mind for details; kiss after kiss, our lips met, separated.

Then I saw the driver getting on, and I knew I had to leave him, and he me.

Many conversations followed after he left. My wounds were deep; he is patient. Many doubts; he dispelled them, one by one, painstakingly.

I’m not sure when I realised I loved him, and that if he were to get up and say “I’m going to leave you, I found someone else”, I could probably smile and let him go, not because I didn’t care but because his happiness was mine. That even if he did that now, I could thank him for all the love he had given me, and all the memories of being loved and being able to love someone. For memories are all we cling onto when we have relationships, friends, family or lovers; we stock these memories with each second we spend with them, to pull them out later like an album and smile to ourselves. It feels odd to say that I love him, but if being able to sacrifice yourself for the sake of another willingly is love – and that’s how I define it – then I do love him.

When you love someone, it does not mean the centre of your world becomes the other person. It becomes an ellipse, with one focus being you and the other being the other person; thus your world expands. You share your world with the other, and hopefully the other reciprocates, and the world expands around you, bring you new joy and new tears.

So whatever the outcome – whether we are together until death do us part or whether we are not – that is not the important thing. It is the journey to the end that is important, each minute spent getting there. And since the journey is inherent to whatever end it reaches, this relationship will always be dear to me, for telling me that there is someone who loves me – not as a friend, or a parent, but as a female, a person, as me – and that I am able to love back.

And it is not being loved that is the key to the relationship. It’s about loving.