Time will pass anyway

If you know me well or have read any of my work, you’d know that I like to think of myself as hyper-aware. Often, it's glorified as an exemplary skill—to appear as if you know more about yourself and others—when, in reality, self-reflection should be a prerequisite in any social environment. In truth, I was introduced to complex and murky ideas well before necessary, either through my own experiences or passive observations, and developed the tools I thought were essential. That’s how you arrive at chronic overthinking. You see, the trap here is that because you’re so accustomed to persistent, chronic self-analysis, you convince yourself that you’re aware of every little change as it happens. Sometimes you are; most times, you’re not. What tends to happen, though, is that a single moment draws you back, forcing you to reckon with your younger counterpart. Then comes the surprise, or maybe amusement, at how much happier, sadder, naiver, or perhaps less guarded—whatever fits—you were at the time, and you’re left thinking, “Where did all the time go, and what did it do with me?”

It tends to happen more often than I’d like and when I least expect it. Take last month, for example. Sometimes it’s triggered by a song or an overdue conversation with a friend. I’m not afraid to admit that this recent session was sparked by a man—a man I hadn’t had a proper conversation with in nearly two years. The last time I spoke to him, we were texting, ending our sweet but underwhelming, undefined tryst. It lasted a little over a month, but worst of all, I had hoped it would last longer. You’d never have heard me admit it back then, but I was upset, and I coveted my right to be upset. I indulged in the hurt briefly, six days later at Christmas, when he messaged, “Happy Christmas.” (Thanks to my mum and sister for listening to my mini rant about how it’s Merry Christmas, not Happy Christmas.) The first term at university had just started, and the last couple of years had been nothing short of a fever dream, probably with more suffering than enjoyment. I wholeheartedly believed I had made it through the last of my “major life-defining struggles,” jumped through the last ring of fire, and the least I deserved was a nice, calm relationship. I felt older than my years—not in the flimsy way people throw it around, but because I had been forced to grow up quickly, in a jarring way, before I even reached my teenage years. So, believe me when I say, I almost physically recoiled when the text bubble materialized and it read, “I feel like we’re at two different stages of our lives. I feel too old for you.” Blasphemy. (He was only a couple of years older.)

I told myself I needed a day to get over it, to not feel like I had failed dramatically. But I couldn’t even convince myself, no matter how hard I tried. Months passed without interference, and then I would catch signs of what felt like my replacement, and the cycle would start all over again. It was inconvenient, to say the least, difficult if I’m being honest. I never would have predicted that, nearly exactly two years later, we

would be swapping DMs about the art exhibitions we wanted to visit that weekend. An isolated, inconsequential conversation that eventually led nowhere, but still—a conversation all the same—and I didn’t feel a thing. In fact, at first, I laughed to myself. What were the chances? He was quite obviously single now—that much was clear—but even the idea of him, or the him that I knew, was enough to spark introspection. Who had I been two years ago? I believed I was pretty much the same person, if not better. Still honest, probably a lot blunter if that was even possible, less likely to have fallen short in that relationship, perhaps. Coincidentally, I stumbled across a video I had buried on the Photobooth app on my Mac. It was maybe 15 minutes of myself talking to the camera—not surprising, since I vlog occasionally or film random stuff to retain my editing skills.

Oh, was I shocked by what I found, perhaps a little horrified to discover he was right. You see, in this instalment, I was lamenting (sobbing really) to the camera about some past experiences that were still wreaking havoc on my mental state, problems that, quite honestly, restricted how far any potential relationship could progress at the time. Honestly, it felt a bit like I was at the zoo, watching myself behind thick glass, analysing my every move, slightly in awe, a little bit concerned. My voice sounded different, foreign; I hadn’t yet stopped code-switching as a default. My face looked different, familiar but a version that had been phased out. I had no business dating, and we were at different stages of our lives. Ergo, he was too old for me.

That’s the beauty of time, I guess—that it must pass with or without my input, and with it come lessons and blessings I could never have seen from the onset. I may have made the active decision to detach from that situation, abandon it, and park it in the box of experiences I held against myself, but that experience was never done with me. I consider myself to be more stable nowadays, more aware of how my past experiences are affecting me currently, and in part, I owe it to his candour. I would have loved to know at the time that it would be beneficial, that I wasn’t facing rejection just for the sake of it, but only time could have done this for me, and it did. Two years to an eighteen-year-old sound infinite, but the time will pass eventually, and so did those feelings of dejection. I never understood the phrase “time will pass anyway.” It felt like a platitude meant to shove people into getting over things, but I see the truth in it now. Who knows how I’ll feel next year.