Chapter 2: That one excruciatingly long timeline with just us

Parallel play

Parallel play was the entire vessel of our random and unjustified activities together. The time we created to find “focus” while it wasn’t needed.

A state of time where it was just you and me. The desire was understood and fulfilled by both parties. Paralleling with you was never boring and never painful. It was always filled with so many little moments of understanding and enjoyment be it in silence or conversation.

In every parallel time we shared, we always found something novel. Do you remember the entire timeline where novelty was all we could focus on?

Novelty had been our theme. The novelty of experiencing something we have never experienced. Or, to be exact, the novelty of finding someone so alike yet so different—experiencing similar things and ending up in different ways, only to then find each other throughout all that. All this we learned through the time we shared.

It was fearful because while I appreciated our time together, it got me thinking about what if one day we find each other unbearably boring because there will be nothing new.

You soothed me with a letter. A letter that got me thinking of all the reasons why we aimed to be novel so badly. Then it clicked. We didn’t fear boredom, we feared separation. Boredom never became a concern because we didn’t fear the other party leaving. It’s simple, then: I’d just have to never be boring. I was certain you’ll never be boring to me. I mean, how could you? Have you ever talked to yourself? The entirety of our parallel play could just be you silently eating, drawing, or sitting there and I would beg to be included.

Realizing this helped. It removed the fear of spending “too much” time with you—if such a thing exists.

From “Do you want to do this tomorrow” to “It’s a given that I always want to”.

We paralleled a lot and we still parallel even now.

I wonder, though, will the novelty ever be gone at all? And if it does, will we stay the same?

I wonder if that’s all it is.

It’s a given

Limerence.

I learned the word one fine evening and then it clicked. It clicked not just to you, but to my entire experiences in the past. My first thought was, “ah, it should be easy then, it is rationalizable”. It’s hard when you think of it as infatuation of some sort, but it’s easy now that it’s something I can monitor and control. Not the best person at controlling my impulses but I could try. It’s a drug situation now. Addicted to the time spent and the exposure of your mercy to me by gracing me with your time and attention.

The thing with drugs, though, it is not sustainable—and it is unhealthy to a certain degree. It got you wishing for more and it got you into withdrawal when you don’t have it.

I couldn’t have it. I did not allow myself to have it because you were not an object of infatuation and obsession. You were a person and I would be damned for allowing myself to drown in whatever mental state I was in. The withdrawal felt like somebody skinned me alive. The constant internal fight of resorting to blaming you for not being there, and the defensive side that kept maintaining the logic, separating the ‘you’ I know and the ‘you’ I idealize. It was hard but it was worth it because you were a friend. A uniquely important one I didn’t want to lose.

It was lonely and isolating but then, on another fine evening, just like usual, we shared the same sentiment and state.

Limerence,

was the word you uttered that night. Not to me, but to the presence of our shared kin. “Ah, I am not alone.” It didn’t make it better. It didn’t make it okay. But it made sense. Suddenly, I felt less lonely.

All the time we spent after was just understood as two addicts trying to cope through the “L” word. It’s a given at that point that we connect on so many things—but to also connect on the point of psychological condition? Should be concerning, but there is something soothing in that.

The feeling of guilt subsided and turned into something more positive: this will end in no time and we’ll be fine. We’d hurt from the fall, but we will come back stronger as something else entirely. If it’s not together, then as different—but definitely better—individuals.

At this point, does it even matter?

The amount of time we had spent together in this span of time was unimaginably long but short. Think of it as a vacuum where everybody else moves at a different pace than the time continuum you and I were in. It felt like I knew you for the longest time and vice versa. It never felt strange and new with you. Every novel thing we experienced together felt right. Past us would be so proud we got to the point in time where we could meet again.

Everyday felt better and better, but also it made me feel doubtful—anxious—because it never waived. Why didn’t it go away with rationalization and intellectualization of feelings? This should last for  2 months. If not, then what other word should we call it? 

If, theoretically, it’s not psychological, then maybe it is something more divine?

Do you know that we can have multiple soulmates in life? However, I’d like to believe the consensus was we don’t want to be just anybody to each other but something more special. Humans—or at least people like you and me—would like to believe there is that one special something in a destined meeting. There should be a divine reason why we met and be with someone in their life. It could be a karmic situation. It could be a soul contract—but do we dare to think it’s a twin flame? I mean the shoes fit what we want. The one thing that can define what we have. The one word that can define it correctly and precisely. But we refused and rejected the word because we both know what twin flame entails. It would be one heck of a journey to face and we hid behind the facade of a soulmate. We’d like to believe the ease we found throughout the time we spent was something inherently grounded. We wanted it to stay and we wanted it to not be a bending over the backwards painful situation. Not because we are cowards, not because we hate pain, but because we want the best for each other. I mean, imagine being the cause of your pain. That's incredibly disgusting. It'd be hard, but hard is not bad. All those years of mistaken twin flame relationships taught us what hard means and what we can learn from it. The universe may have put us in lots of survival states to come to a point of meeting where you and I don't have to go through all that pain with each other. It does not mean there won’t be any painful moments at all, but at this point, does it even matter?

I asked that question a lot and the answer was always doubtful “no”s, but this time it really doesn’t matter. The entirety of the world can go, crash, and burn for all I care—and you and me will stay the same. I hope. I wish.

With you and me, while it’s hard, it's not yet about us. It has always been the rest of every other thing. I am glad we embraced the word twinflame. Because the only way to explain what we have is the fact we were part of the same soul, separated, and now reunited.

Read Part 3 Here