Illusions

A game of truth and dare with rounds of spin the bottle. We were at the age where we were not old enough to indulge in drunken fun nor were we young enough to be satisfied by a game of tag or board games. We were at the age where we harbored intense feelings within us, waiting for the perfect moment to burst out of its shell. It was the first bloom of our spring when we noticed his caring nature or her charming smile. It was that seed that planted itself into our chests and spurred the tempo of our young love. It was the age when we’ve begun to explore our maturing ideas of love. Laughter and soft utters of names can be heard around the room. The game was in full force now. We sometimes find ourselves shocked at the connections each name uttered brings us to. A string of red within a mess of others- it’s a wonder how some find the end of theirs. Other times, they are obvious connections, gleaming and shining from the pile of dull ropes and we only hear supportive cheers from the collective. Teasing shouts into our red faces, we enjoyed the adrenaline rush from relieving that burden we’ve tied to our ankles like shackles, it so easy, to let slip the name of the one who’s been plaguing you relentlessly. Brought up by a diet of movies and dramas that we catch at punctual times every evening, we have pre-notions and expectations of what love should be. We might expect the fairytale we’ve seen only a thousand times. We might expect to find a red string connected to the boy you like but the reality is no less harsher than the ground you scrape your knee against when you fall after a particularly intense run. The particular wound is cut open when he pulls you aside only to ask if it was all just an elaborate joke. You feel blood rush from the seams of the skin that has carefully held them within you. You can see it in front of you, that hollow broken object, flopping on the floor, liquid seeping out of its weak beats. You feel water collect at the sides of your vision but you laugh it off as if nothing has happened, except that there’s a bitter, scathing tone when the laughter comes out hollowed. Perhaps the world had decided to play the world’s most cruel joke as you try to piece together all the evidences that seemed so convincing. The way he glances towards you or when he goes out of his way to help you- they had seemed convincing enough. You return to the circle, friends still chattering noisily without noticing your quick disappearance. He too, returns to the circle and you try not to look at him. As if to spite you, the bottle points towards him and the same question is asked. Without a beat, he utters her name. Ah.That’s right. You feel small suddenly and you want to disappear when the looks turn towards you. You do the same low laughter, each laugh striking your chest with such force you can almost feel it collapsing. You began your swift explanation, an elaborate lie you were proud of for coming up with in the few short moments before this round. The crowd resumes its incessant chatter and the evidences start to make sense to you. You simply took the moments and pieces and jammed it into your own convoluted puzzle. Putting together a picture that was never there before, a picture that you’ve believed in for a long time, a picture that was the essence of your life because of how you centered so much of your actions on them. “I need to leave,” You say and gather your stuff, feeling incredibly stupid. A classic line from the movies where the heroine leaves hurt and stupefied. You take one last teary glance back and realize that this time, no one’s going to grab your wrist or pull you back. This is the age when we realize that love is nothing but dreams.