wombat football

Catharsis

Imagine, for a moment, that you are a boy.

Imagine that you meet someone—a girl. Initially, she infuriates you. She is quick-witted and funny; frustratingly articulate, occasionally condescending. You do not yet realise that these are the things you will fall in love with; because you are just a boy.

Imagine now that some years have passed. The two of you have spent a lot of time together, become friends, shared interests.

Imagine that you wake one summer morning, suddenly aware of the fact you have been thinking about her almost constantly for the last few months. This terrifies you. Not only because you did not expect it, but also because she is unavailable, in the most insurmountable of ways.

Imagine then that you try to shake it off, throwing yourself into music, creativity and no small amount of drinking. Driving yourself to write, to make things, to experiment. It works, for a while. You do not yet realise that these are the things she will fall in love with; because you are just a boy.

Imagine that you watch her singing. You have seen her sing many times, but on this night it dawns on you that every piece of music, every lyric, every poem you have written recently is either for her, or about her. You know now that you are in real trouble. But there is nothing to be done, so you push it all the way down inside yourself, try to drown it out.

Imagine now that you are standing in your hallway, with the sound of your friends’ laughter ringing through the flat. Your phone buzzes: it is a message that makes your head spin.

Later that night, you kiss her—or she kisses you—and something begins.

This, you cannot imagine, unless you have known it. Dazzling, wonderful highs and devastating lows. A passion and closeness like nothing you have ever experienced before, a whirlwind of midnight phone calls and sun-dappled backs; rain on windows; the sound of waves; possibilities.

Imagine that several months have flown by. Now, suddenly, you are driving her to a station to catch a train; to catch a plane which will take her to another continent, to pursue the dreams you have encouraged her to follow. But you cannot—cannot—watch the train leave; because you are just a boy.

Imagine now that for the first time in many years you have a plan, a purpose: to follow her there and start a new life, together. You talk often, via video calls and email, and soon you will fly to visit her in her new home.

Imagine that as you leave that incredible city, see its lights extinguished by cloud like a million dying stars, you think of her and there is only one possible future. You resolve to return as soon as you can, with a ring; because you are just a boy, and you are in love.

Imagine then, that the calls and the emails gradually become less frequent. Imagine the night you realise that everything is falling apart. Imagine hanging up that call, the call you knew was coming, but simply didn’t have the strength to prepare for.

Imagine that you spend every night thinking, though it is the last thing you want to do. Imagine praying, to gods you do not believe in, for a moment of peace which never comes. Imagine that you do not sleep, at all, for a week.

Imagine that nearly two years later, you are still in touch; that you could not contemplate losing her completely, though at first it hurt like hell. Imagine she tells you she is coming home, and that although you truly have no illusions that your relationship will be rekindled: you are happy.

Imagine now that when you meet again on the day after her return, a new boyfriend—who you knew nothing about—is there with her. Imagine that somehow, mercifully, this moment does not hurt half as much as you thought it would. Imagine that even now, you know that you love her; that you genuinely want her to find happiness, even if you’re not part of it.

Because you are not a boy, anymore.