First of Summer

It still puzzles me why photos on that particular night are all gone. Nothing from my phone, hard drive, Dropbox or even e-mails. I looked everywhere I could, and it’s crazy how the printed ones on this old planner are the only survivors. It’s as if they were gotten rid of on purpose or that there was a premonition somehow that they’d disappear, I mean — how coincidental it was that I decided to print them randomly? And me losing files? So unlikely. I can’t believe there are prints, but no soft copies. That’s the only period of my life that don’t have receipts, and that makes me really sad.

***

Tangibility to me is significant because it gives me something to grasp on, a validation that there was realness to the occasion.

Not that it was major, in fact it was just all fun.

And games.

One week.

One night.

***

It was another summer we’d have to spend together.

I couldn’t count the number of bottles we downed throughout the week and since that would be the last of that trip, it ought to be good. And hell yeah, it was.

My last clear memory of that night was us singing along to First of Summer — w t f, that song has always been an anthem to me and to listen to it at the beach, on an actual summer and with Gab and John performing it live no less was a freaking dream! I even scored another photo with the band after the gig and damn, wrapping my head around these facts right now is just real hard, I mean.. I can’t believe it actually happened and more importantly, I can’t believe it was with you because it was never supposed to be you.

What. The. Fuck.

And then everything that came after was a blur.

With our reputation as the strongest (and responsible — saving this for another time) drinkers among the group, it’s unbelievable that we met our downfall before midnight.

We were being served with good music, and for the first time we were okay to mingle with the rest. We all couldn’t contain our enjoyment, and somewhere along the way I was crushing over our resident DJ playing his set. It was the beginning of the Instagram Stories era, and in one of the videos left on my files, there you were — telling me to stop mentioning it because.. it’s making you jealous.

Your voice. It was real.

I just laughed.

Hard.

What. The. Fuck.

It was a beautiful moment of singing, dancing and toasting that our hands ended up being intertwined throughout the night. You wouldn’t stop yakking about my little crush though, which prompted me to hit back with your flings. You were being unfair — you could keep walking on the sand with some random girl you meet while you wouldn’t let me go on with my harmless showering of attention to the man on stage? Sounded like some real drunk conversation (because it was), but seriously, where’s the equality in that?

You even tried pulling off this walking out drama which you always loved doing even in our sober lives, but drunk me was not having it. Your eyebrows raised, your mood angry.

Why was that cute though??

What. The. Fuck.

On my end, I kept on waiting for you to get over yourself for the time being because I knew you’d come back. And you did, thank you so much. Trying my hardest to recall even just fragments of whether there was something I did to address those sweet tantrums of yours — did I even try coming after you or at least said some shit like “don’t be mad it was nothing”? Because if I didn’t at all, I’d love to be sent back through the time capsule and fix it even if we were just playing.

What. The. Fuck.

And then there was more laughing. More touching. More drunk conversations.

We were so close I could feel your mouth in my ear.

Fucking drunk me blew the whispers off by saying it all out loud. Announcing how everything between us was escalating at that moment we were about to meet at the edge of the bed further into the night. Guess it was too funny not to share but I was too blacked out I didn’t realize it was not meant to be a joke.

What. The. Fuck.

That’s when everyone started feeling it was already more than what we’re supposed to be. We reached the moment where we needed to be rescued — from the alcohol, and from each other.

It’s gotten so bad suddenly it became dangerous for us to still be together.

And just like that, the party was over.

WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK.

Happy three years to that fucking crazy night.