Five More Minutes and I Would Have Been Out of There...

Which is the one thing I asked of him. 

Which he didn't listen to.  

Which is why we were breaking up in the first place.  

One of the reasons, anyway.

One of the other reasons, ironically enough, was that he was never home.  Which would have been fine - you can say a lot of things about me, but a clingy girlfriend I am not - except that it wasn't like I could go out with my friends.  You know, because my friends are thousands of miles away.  Because I moved thousands of miles to be with him.  Because I thought he was worth it.

I thought he was the guy I had been waiting for.  The guy who made the last few years of being the awkward "one" at parties full of "twos".  Of listening to two elderly aunties debate what it was I was doing to apparently repel men ("I mean, she's pretty enough, I guess" - direct quote.  I guess.  Moving on.)  Of throwing myself into being chief bridesmaid again and again and again, with a demented smile at all times,  just in case anyone noticed that I was horrible and selfish enough to be wondering, the whole time, why not me?

Which I hate even saying out loud, because you're not supposed to think like that any more, are you?  We're supposed to focus on careers and independence, and not relying on anyone else to make us happy, and of course I believe in that too, it's just, when the entire world is paired off, it's hard not to be like -- did I miss something here?

So when Henrik drunkenly stumbled over to me and my friends at a Full Moon Party in Thailand and asked me to dance and turned out to be the geekiest - I mean, painfully, painfully, horrible - dancer you've ever seen in your life and it was adorable and for the first time in my life, I was the one to kiss a guy just because I needed to put him out of the misery of dancing... I thought "finally."

I don't just want to be with anyone, I want to be crazy in love and be with someone who sets my heart on fire makes me just want to explode with happiness that he exists and he is mine.  And for him to feel like that about me.  He doesn't have to be a prince or a billionaire or a rock star; he just needs to act like he notices I'm there, listen to what I am actually saying once in a while, seem like he's a little more than mildly happy to see me when he stumbles home after playing soccer, or watching soccer, or drinking beer with his buddies, or working late.  And not suddenly start acting like he is crazy in love because I'm leaving.  

Too late.  

Why couldn't he have stayed away for five freakin' more minutes?!