We met on Christmas eve

We met on Christmas Eve. In a stuffy London pub full of festive lights and the faint smell of Thai food. You kissed me while Harry Styles played in the background before we giggled and stumbled into midnight mass. Bringing in Christmas with a mulled wine in one hand and yours in the other. 

From then I saw you each week. We broke out of parks after spending too long inside, we danced at free concerts and even tackled an IKEA flat pack together when I moved. Surrounded by plastic hearts and loved up couples, you were even my first Valentine. 

When lockdown hit I asked if we’d be ok. Of course you said, without a second to think. Why would you even ask that? 

We did the distanced picnics, we did the virtual dates and I kept leaving them with a pang in my gut that we just weren’t ok. I’d sigh to my housemates over a bottle of wine, checking my phone to see you hadn’t text me back this time. Not for a while. 

We took a break, for two whole days, before giving us a second try. It lasted only two weeks before we were sat in the park, the one we’d jumped the fence of only 5 months prior, with tears in our eyes. Mine more so than yours. 

There’s no spark you insist while I nod in agreement. We’ve fizzled. Somethings missing. We should want to move to the next phase but... 

You stare at me and say “but I still want to kiss you.” 

We went our separate ways after a hug that felt too long. You wanted to stay friends, to talk in a few months, to keep me in you life. Asking me why is that so wrong? 

We didn’t talk for a while. But then you started to slide back in. Responding to my posts, texting me random jokes. 

I don’t understand what is going through your head. 

I’d rather you let sleeping dogs lie and allow me to move on instead.