We never broke up, because we were never a couple.
Recently, our cosmos realigned to map crossing paths. Akin de novo, I notice another pea in the pot, the closest proximate I’ve known to a male version of me. Definitely not identical, but vastly similar. Our thoughts hitch the same train, Jan’s* instinctive behavior a dead ringer to mine. Previously, I observed that we deal with hurt and anger similarly, not to mention our common trait of legendary stubbornness.
He was more a best friend than a boyfriend. The guy I confide in, rather than one I lust and pine after. We spent many weekends riding the free bus (student budget) for RM1 ice- cream (student budget again), exchanging views on whatever weights our minds. It fascinated me how our convictions almost always travel down the same battered path. He was my emotional crutch. On top of common family backgrounds and reciprocal regard for the world we live in, we shared a dream- to become airline pilots.
After all, we were churned out of the very same mill of a mega church system.
Also, he certainly isn’t bad looking; God didn’t shortchange him in that department.
Along the way, lines got blurred.
We hooked up.
Perhaps, I found comfort in his company. At the end of the day, touch is runner up on my language-of-love sequence. I now question certain choices, but I never regret the person or our proximity. Different people appear in our lives at different times for varying reasons, and his role in mine resembles Gale Hawthorne to Katniss Everdeen in Hunger Games: crucial, critical, support system… but not her end game.
We never broke up. We just grew apart after jetting (pun not intended) off to different flying schools.
I dated my share of guys, some steady, some otherwise (although my memory of those relationships pale in his shadow).
Then I met Dickson, my Peeta Mellark. In a previous post, I described our chemistry as two aptly fitted jigsaw puzzle pieces. If Dickson and I are two perfectly matched pieces, Jan* and I are identically shaped ones. The matching two fit beautifully. On the other hand, although the identical ones comfortably coexist, and may even pass as a single entity, uniting them is a predicament.
P.S. I think the cuts on Peeta’s face are hot!
If Jan’s* opinions almost always mirror mine, Dickson’s doesn’t. Nevertheless, Dickson never fails to understand my basis. Instead of a snippet from my tousled cloth (we are not cut from the same cloth), Dickson admires, supports, and embrace my cloth; his sleek fabric tone down my unkempt own.
Life rode me through windy paths and giant potholes. Unknowingly, I arrived at the revelation that I celebrate difference. I yearn compatible disparity.
Perhaps, non-identical personalities are the congruous ones.
Katniss married Peeta.
And I married Dickson.
*Name has been changed.