Detached
I don’t mean to keep coming here and writing the same thing over and over again with new words. But for every brief - simulated across wires and airwaves - piece of contact I have with the girl I left at home I find myself desperately trying to find the right way to express the sadness I feel for not being able to hold her hand and tell her everything could be okay if she wanted it to be.
I want to tell her that I would commit my every moment to her if she would let me, and that I would be for her, everything I know she is looking for. The sadness is that I can’t offer her that option, or hope. I’m too far away from her not only a geographical sense, but also in terms of where we are in our lives. I’m still a student, and will be for another 15 months. She is working, and quite possibly moving to London, where a girl of her undoubted beauty, intelligence and class will not stay single for long.
But you know what? Even if it meant I never stepped foot back inside my university and that I spent the next twenty years of my life paying off my student debt for no tangible benefit, I’d do it to be hers. I’d do it knowing the sheer stupidity of it, and I’d do it realising that I’d be stepping off one very secure footing into an altogether less ‘sure’ situation. But I’d do it all just on the off-chance that this is the one.
love. probably.
