It is November when things start falling apart. Tempers short and words angry. Unread fears and apologies. In the end, both of us were too afraid of the oncoming onslaught, too blinded to put ourselves back together.

It is December the first time I lie to you. It is December, the second time you fall apart.

It is January when you said I make you feel more special than anyone ever has in your life, and I believed we were going to be okay. A few days later you told me it was a one-day thing. We stopped going out after.

It is April when I close the door on you, slamming it hard behind me so you know not to follow. It is painful as I lay in bed, quiet my only solace, loneliness my thick companion in the sheets. 20 minutes later I twist the door unlock so that you can come in. I spend the next two months waiting, but you never let yourself in.

It is June when I realise you have closed the door on me; the instant in which my world crumbled when I saw the telltale way you smiled at her by the playground against the coal blue set sky. (The details, I remember vividly because how many times have I imagined it be me.) That night, I never got the kiss I wanted but I kissed girls whose faces I don’t even remember, with alcohol on both our breaths.

It is November when we wait outside, anxious hands trembling as we grip our transparent pencil cases tighter, the odd strikingly coloured jackets standing out in the sea of black, navy and maroon. I had always been one to fidget when nervous, and one too many of a step back accidentally had my back graze against someone else’s. There is no explanation why, out of the 200 over people standing there that could’ve been, I knew it had to be you. My friends in front of me looked up and that’s when I knew you turned to see who it had been (I knew you would’ve felt it because you’ve always been sensitive to touch like that), and I just kept my eyes straight ahead as if I didn’t realise. Later, when the first paper was over and I saw you sitting alone by the back of the shutters, it struck me that Chemistry had always been your worst subject and that, up till that point, I had forgotten.

It is January when we talk again for the first time, counting out what transpired that one particular day, and I found myself 3 parts hopeful, 2 parts wanting, and too many parts delusional. The conversation is short, and anything but sweet, and I am torn apart for the nth time.

It is January when I learn what it’s like to have loved, and lost.