Wonderwall.
You marvel at how a single song you heard on the radio could possibly summarize everything you feel; everything you've ever felt. At the moment it all began too, consciously at least.
You laugh.
You laugh at how it always begins with 'wonderwall.' You laugh at how it undoubtedly captures the very essence of the situation you find yourself in. You laugh at how, when it was first playing, he pointed the song out just so he could dodge a question. You laugh at how his attempt failed.
It's mirthless laughter, foreign to your ears. It's the kind that sounds sincere but doesn't quite reach your eyes.
You seem to do that a lot these days.
And suddenly, you hate 'wonderwall,' you hate the way you feel when you hear it. You hate the way your heart seemingly wants to jump out your throat. You hate that it speaks your heart (the roads we have to walk along are winding/ and all the lights that lead us there are blinding, indeed). You hate, no, you utterly loath the fact that you're starting to sound like some goddamn damsel in distress from some clichéd movie—you never sound like a clichéd damsel in distress. You hate, most of all, the feeling of hope it gives you.
Then you realize that a part of you hates him. You hate what he does to you; the dizzying effect mere thoughts of him cause.
You're disgusted that your heart rate increases; your breath quickens; your stomach churns.
All from the thoughts of him.
God knows what'll happen once you actually have to stand near him, actually see him. It would be funny if you weren't so pathetic, you tell yourself.
Days pass since he left. Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, and—except for a handful of relapses—you tell yourself that you're over him. You tell yourself that lie time after time. And you start believing it too.
But then you hear it—'wonderwall'—and it all comes rushing back. The churning stomach, the increasing heart rate, your breathing—or lack there of. It all comes back.
You hear it in a car with your newfound friends.
You never got over him at all, you realize. Not even close. It sounds on the stereo and you can't help but laugh.
It's that mirthless laugh again. The one you put on for show. The one that compliments your "cold-hearted-ice-queen-bitch" title.
You can't help but laugh at how—even after seven months have passed since that fateful after-noon where 'wonderwall,' so seemingly innocent, entered your life; when it was introduced as a really, really good song—your heart does little "flip-flops" at the first notes strummed on that godforsaken guitar.
Your friends laugh too. One laughs at the irony that is your life; one laughs, almost pitying you; one laughs because he's got no bloody clue what everyone's laughing at.
You keep thinking that you're fine. You start being OK with the distance—not just the physicality of it, but emotionally as well (you haven't had a proper conversation in ages)—you start to accept that 'wonderwall' is just a song. You realize that it was always only ever a song. You realize all that hope it gave you was false.
False hope. Brilliant.
But it just makes it easier for you to get over it, to get over him. And for a while, you think that it's worked. You're not delusional in thinking that you're completely done with him or that you'll never think about him. But you're not pining. That's a start.
Acceptance. That's what's happened.
He comes home tomorrow—today you amend, because it's almost five o'clock in the morning. God, when did you become such a sap, you think to yourself—And suddenly you get nervous. You wonder what'll happen once you see him again. How you'll react to the situation. Whether your reputation of being strong and impenetrable will fail you.
For a moment you're sure it will. For a moment it flits across your minds eye, how you see him and your heart's just about to burst from your chest. You can smell him and you know your heart can't jump out your chest because it's stopped beating. You can hardly breathe just thinking about these things.
You wonder if this will come to pass. You wonder how he'll act with you, around you, even near you. You wonder what's changed in your behavioral patterns with each other. You wonder if anything's changed at all. You wonder if you're as good at hiding these emotions as you are at others. You wonder, even if you are a good actress, if this isn't a part too big for you to play. You wonder if you're not insane. You wonder if you can handle any of this. You just… wonder.
You sit here, late at night, listening to 'wonderwall' wondering all this.
And at long last, you wonder if it won't end with 'wonderwall' too.