Ha Det Så Bra

©2015 dear-llama. All Rights Reserved.


It comes in waves, this sadness.

Today I'm sitting on the bus, watching the scenery cycle past through rain-splattered glass, and I suddenly miss you.


"Do you believe in soulmates?"

I asked you this, once. On one of those nights towards the end. One of those last few times we sat together outside, looking up at the stars, drinks in hands.

You took your time answering, pausing first for a sip of gin and tonic. "I don't know," you said. "What's the definition of a soulmate?" You spread your hands, still holding onto your glass with your right thumb and index finger. "If you mean it in the sense of two people being made for each other... Then no, I don't believe in soulmates."

"I don't believe in that definition of soulmates, either," I said. I was holding onto my own glass with both hands, clamping my fingers tight together. The cool bottom of the glass had already left an imprint on my lap, from where I was pressing it against my skin. "Or maybe I don't believe in soulmates. But I believe... sometimes... you meet someone and you just..."

"Click," you filled in quietly, after I trailed off.

I darted a quick glance at you, and saw you staring. You did this a lot. Stare.

This was how it always was, even from the beginning, before we ever started talking. The secret glances. You dropping your gaze when I turned to catch you staring; me doing the same when you did. The overly long moments of eye contact. The surreptitious watching from across the room.

When I looked into your eyes... There was something there that I've never fully understood. Looking into your eyes didn't set my heart all aflutter, like the way they describe in story books and movies. I never felt particularly excited, or turned on, or nervous.

I felt calm, like I'd been waiting all day to look into those eyes.

Like I'd been waiting all my life.

I've always had a thing for blue eyes. I think they're pretty. But your eyes... Your eyes were different. I couldn't admire them objectively, like I did with every other blue-eyed boy I'd met before you. Your eyes were special. Your eyes drew me in.

I wonder what you saw in my eyes.

Because you didn't look away, either.

"Yeah," I said, lowering my head to examine the empty glass in my hands. Like a feeling, I wanted to say, that in another life, maybe, or if you'd met earlier – you could have belonged together in some way.

But I didn't say it.

Because even then, I knew it sounded crazy.


Today I meet someone with eyes similar to yours.

I don't mean the colour – nobody could have your particular shade of blue-grey.

This girl – she's Italian. She has brown eyes. But there is something about the shape of her eyes, and how deep-set they are, that is exactly like yours. I shoot her surreptitious glances, observing her eyes, her eyelids, her under-eye dark circles.

They all remind me of yours.

And when she looks downwards, shielding her eyes from the world, a picture of you doing that very same thing flashes through my mind.

You do it a lot, you know. When you're thinking about something; when someone asks you a question you don't really want to answer; when you disagree with something you've just heard; when you're unhappy. This is the look you get.

I spend the whole time looking at her eyes.


It took us one and a half years to get on speaking terms. But that wasn't to say I didn't notice you. I noticed you right from the start. I noticed that we would always run into each other at certain places, at certain times.

And I noticed, when that happened, you stared. A lot.

One of these places that we both frequented was that long stretch of road, the one leading from the faculty building to the second-largest cafeteria on campus. You liked to eat there. So did I.

The very first semester of graduate school, you were there almost every night. Your usual dinner time, though, was always when mine had just ended. And on my way back to the faculty building, I would see you heading for the cafeteria, usually with someone else.

That someone else was usually a girl.

I knew a lot of girls hovered around you that first semester. I didn't blame them. You were good-looking and Swedish – more exotic than the usual international student.

And that first semester, all the girls were trying their luck with you.

It felt like you never turned down a dinner invite. I saw you with so many different girls. But never the same one twice.

I was almost starting to look forward to seeing which girl you were going for dinner with on any particular night. And I would always keep an eye out for you when I walked along that stretch of road.

The night I remember best was a cold, rainy night. I was walking in the rain, the hood of my jacket pulled over my head. I was with a friend. She was talking about her views on the institution of marriage, and I was only listening half-heartedly.

Then I caught sight of you.

You had an umbrella shielding you from the rain, but both your hands were in your pockets. You were walking with a tall girl, and she was the one holding the umbrella.

I glanced at her and, under the dim streetlights, deduced that she was pretty. She was chattering away, but you didn't seem to be listening. Your eyes were lowered to the ground, fixed on your feet as you walked on.

As we neared each other, you suddenly looked up. Maybe you felt my eyes on you. Maybe it was plain coincidence. But you looked up and our gazes locked.

I looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring, but your eyes never left me.

When we walked past each other, I was the one looking at the ground.

"...Don't you think so, too?" My friend was asking.

"Yeah," I murmured, without any idea as to what I was agreeing with.

A few steps on, I turned back, and saw you still watching me.


Today, because my friend has been badgering me about it, I make a list of my 'ideal guy'.

"Blue eyes," I say, almost automatically, as my first criterion. I say it so often that I don't even know if it's just a joke anymore.

"And?"

"Good-looking, I guess." I smile, "I'm superficial."

"Blue-eyed and good-looking," she repeats. "That's not hard."

"Tall," I add. "Not too tall, though. It would be perfect if I just came up to his shoulder, or something."

"Still not that hard to find a guy like that."

"Likes to read."

My friend laughs. "Okay. It's starting to get a little more challenging."

"Multilingual. Likes to learn new languages..."

She is shaking her head now.

I'm on a roll now. "Sociable, but not a party animal. Artistic – likes to create stuff, or is at least able to appreciate works of art. Dog person. Reliable."

"Okay," my friend says finally. "You have too specific wishes."

"Yeah." I smile wryly. "I will never find anyone, I suppose."

But even as I say it, I realise – other than the last two points, you fit my list.


It was the first time we had ever spoken to each other at length, but I ended up learning so much about you in one night.

We met along that long stretch of road again, but this time, in a twist of events, we were both heading in the same direction.

I was the one who said hi first, purely on a whim, but you were the one to keep the conversation going.

I'm bad at sustaining conversations with strangers. After the initial introductions and small talk about the basics – Master's or PhD? research topic? country of birth? – I fell silent.

"I bought a new camera yesterday," you said, chatting like we were already friends.

"Oh," I said. "For travelling, or...?"

"I'm taking up photography," you told me.

"Oh, cool," I said.

"Yeah." You chuckled and dipped your head a little. "I need a creative outlet."

"Ah," I said, nodding. "I get what you mean. I need a creative outlet to express myself, too."

You looked at me with interest. "Do you take photographs, too?"

"Yeah, I mean… I take photos, too, on my phone, but mostly… I write."

"You write? What about?"

I shrugged. "Fiction. About growing up, finding yourself... Wanting to belong. About feelings. Love. Pain. Life."

"Cool," you said, and you sounded like you meant it. Most people got distracted when I said 'love', and started smirking. As if writing stories about love made someone any less of a serious writer.

You bent a little to look directly at me then. You were grinning, "Will I get to read your stories?"

I smiled and turned to hide my face. "Maybe someday."

Maybe someday, when I've stopped writing about you.

"So," I said, steering the conversation away from dangerous waters, "what do you take photos of? Scenery...?"

"Well... Sometimes. But portraits are more interesting, don't you think?" You were looking at me with a smile, waiting for a response.

"I guess," I said, but my lips were twisted. I didn't like people in my photographs.

"I'm kind of an amateur," you said, "so I haven't really found my motif yet. Right now I just take pictures of things that interest me."

"Animals?" I lifted my eyebrows. "Lots of wildlife around here."

"Yeah," you said. "Animals. Cats, especially." You grinned widely. "I really love cats."

"Oh," I said. I couldn't help but feel a little let down. "So you're a cat person?"

You nodded. "You?" you asked. "Which do you prefer? Dogs?"

I stared at you. How did you know? "Yup."

You nodded again, but this time you were looking at the ground.

"You don't like dogs?" I asked.

"Well," you said. "The… smaller, cuter ones, yeah."

"I used to be scared of dogs," I said. "As a kid. Cats were my favourite animals."

You looked up again, fixing your gaze back on mine. "Really?"

I smiled. "Yeah. I was terrified of dogs. But one day, when I was five or so, I got into a fight with a dog. After that, we became best friends. And then dogs became my favourite."

"You got into a fight with a dog?" you repeated. "How did that happen?"

"I was at my grandma's, and she had a golden retriever." I laughed a little, reminiscing. You were watching me intently. "It came sniffing around me, and I was terrified. It was probably twice my size, back then. So instead of waiting for it to attack me, I attacked it first." I grinned at you, "Pre-emptive strike, right?"

You raised your eyebrows, but you were smiling.

I acted out the fight, miming pulling out clumps of fur. "I pulled at its fur and came away with a handful… Long story short, I won the fight – the dog was actually really docile. Then we became best friends after that."

"Interesting," you said, dragging out the word. "So the fight made you start liking dogs more?"

"Yup. I mean – I still like cats, too, but... I prefer dogs."

You nodded, and went back to looking at the ground as we walked on.

"I'm going to meet a bunch of strangers on Friday night," I said. I didn't know why I was sharing this with you. You were virtually a stranger, too. "And I'm bad at meeting strangers, really... So I'm kind of worried about that." I laughed.

You looked at me. "Yeah? Where are you going?"

I looked down at the ground, finding myself somewhat reluctant to say this. "We're going out to a club."

"Oh." There was a note of surprise in your voice. "Going out dancing? You like to dance?"

"I guess I do," I said, smiling tightly, "although I'm not very good at it."

"Do you go to clubs often?"

"Not really... I prefer to hang out at pubs or bars where you can just... chill out and talk."

You'd been looking down, away from me at the mention of clubs, but at this, you looked back up. Your eyes were suddenly trained on mine. You were interested again. "You like drinking?"

I smiled a little. "I guess so."

"Me too," you exclaimed. "I keep some alcohol in my locker over at the faculty building. I moved some out the other day, but I still have a lot of bottles in there."

I blinked. "Oh."

"I mean," you were getting flustered now, "it's not like I'm an alcoholic, or anything. I don't drink that much usually. I just–"

"–like to drink occasionally," I finished.

You blinked at me, startled, before smiling. You looked relieved that I understood. "Yeah, I just like to drink occasionally."

I smiled back. "Yeah, I get what you mean."

Your eyes lit up. I had never understood that saying before I met you. But now I did. A light really did seem to come on in your eyes whenever you were happy.

"Maybe… the next time you're staying late in school," you said, "we could have a drink together."

I blinked at the invitation. And then I smiled.


Today I'm at a restaurant. And I'm not sure why, but I find myself talking about you.

But I wasn't talking about you at first. I was talking about her.

"She just told me the other day… she's probably going to extend."

"She already knows she can't finish her thesis in time?" My friend asks. "But there are still three months…"

I secretly think her decision to extend her Master's research period has something to do with you. I don't think it's that hard to write thirty-thousand words, even if it's in just three months. "I don't know," I shrug, "she says she's certain."

My friend reads my mind. "So then… She will see him again. When he comes back from… wherever."

I look away. "Yeah."

"Is she extending because of him?" It seems like my friend's thoughts are going down the same track.

"I don't know."

And anyway, it doesn't matter. I won't see you again.

She will.

"Do you think," I pause, needing to find the courage to continue, "do you think he likes her?"

My friend thinks about it. "I don't think so. Something tells me he doesn't."

"He's talked about her to me a couple of times, though," I sigh. I am staring at the table-top, hiding my eyes from her in the way that you would.

My friend laughs. "You know what, I think he knows you very well. He knows that she is your one weakness."

I try to laugh it off, saying with a wave of my hand, "Don't be ridiculous."

"He knows exactly how to make you jealous," she says, raising an eyebrow at me. "He did it on purpose, I think."

Maybe. I don't know.

I think I don't want to know, even if you do like her.


In the month right before we started talking, I caught you alone in the graduate students' lounge with her.

Maybe caught is a bad word. I walked in on the two of you talking alone together.

I knew you were friends of a sort. In the very first month of grad school, she had already introduced herself to you. And she had been one of the girls you had gone to dinner with, too. But that had been the first time I had seen the two of you interact with my own eyes.

I saw the two of you standing together through the panel of glass on the door. Your locker was beside hers, so it could have been that you'd simply run into each other there. You weren't standing too close, but you were turned fully towards her and I saw your lips moving.

Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself taking a detour to enter by the back door. And when I opened the door, something in me made me squat down before shuffling in.

You wouldn't be able to see me from that distance. I hoped.

I tried to shut the door quietly, but it wasn't easy doing it from my position near the ground. I winced at the loud click that echoed through the room when the automatic lock engaged.

Halfway to my locker, I gave up. It was stupid. Besides – I was sure the both of you already knew I was there, because your voice had turned into a mumble. I could hear you talking fast, your words jumbled together.

I got to my feet – like it was the most normal thing in the world to have half-crawled in through the door – and made a beeline for my locker.

I didn't want to look at you. But my head turned slightly in your direction just before I moved down the aisle.

You were looking at me.

I got to my locker, out of view from the both of you, and leaned my forehead against the cold metal. Well. Now I just felt wretched. And embarrassed. What had I been thinking?

The sound of your voice stopped within minutes of my entering, and I wondered if it was because you had nothing more to say, or because I had interrupted the both of you.

Then the front door beeped and someone else came in. I heard voices again, and then she was suddenly beside me.

I busied myself with opening the door of my locker.

"Hey," she said. She had a somewhat shell shocked look on her face. Talking to you made her nervous, I suppose.

"Hey."

"He gave me a voucher," she told me.

"Okay," I said. Why did she feel the need to report this to me?

"Do you want it?" she asked, holding out the voucher to me. It was one for some kind of sport shoes. Her hand was shaking a little.

In that instant, I knew – she liked you.

I scowled at it. "Why would I want it?"

She shrugged. "I don't know... But I don't need it, either..."

Take it home and frame it on the wall, I thought to myself. Then I schooled my expression. "Yeah, well..." After a pause, I couldn't help myself. "Why did he give you this, out of the blue?"

"Oh, he's flying back to Sweden today for Christmas. And he's not going to be back before it expires, so..."

"Okay."

With nothing left to say, she bade me a quick farewell and disappeared back towards her locker.

I stood at my locker, biting my lip, trying to blink back the tears I could feel forming behind my eyelids. It was stupid to get upset about this. It was just a voucher. And we had never talked. You weren't mine. She was your friend. I was nothing. This heaviness at the bottom of my stomach – it was illogical.

I heard footsteps then. It was you. You were walking towards the back door with a friend – the guy who had entered right after I had.

As you passed, you looked right at me. Your eyes were that happy shade of blue. You were really pleased about something.

I turned away, but not before I caught you smiling to yourself.


Today I am at the supermarket with a friend, when I see it. My friend sees it too, and turns to me, pointing. "What language is this?"

It's nothing fancy, just some bread. But the packaging is in a different language altogether – no English translations at all. That, in itself, makes it stand out.

I run a finger over the plastic. The words… I don't understand most of them, but I know.

"Swedish," I say quietly. I've picked up the ability to differentiate Swedish from the other Scandinavian languages now. I turn the packaging over to double-check – there's an address right at the bottom that says: Linköping, Sverige. I'm right.

My friend laughs. "Your Swedish is getting better."

"I don't speak Swedish," I say.

I push the packet away.


"Hey." You lifted your arm to wave as you passed.

"Hej," I responded, grinning at you. "Um, how are... Wait – how do you say it in Swedish?"

You turned back around and walked back to where I had stopped in the middle of the corridor. "How to say what?" you asked, when you were standing directly in front of me.

"How are you?"

"Hur är det?"

I nodded, trying to imitate you. "Hur ehr de?"

You were grinning at me. I think you found my accent funny.

"Well?" I gestured towards you, "Aren't you going to reply?"

"In Swedish?" You lifted an eyebrow at me.

I shrugged. "You can reply in Swedish, I guess, I just won't be able to understand it."

You laughed. "It's going well. I didn't have class today, so I went to the gym… had a swim… Now I'm going to work on my presentation. How are you?"

"Good." Your answers were always so detailed, but I had no idea how to answer this question. "I just got to school not long ago… so I haven't gotten much done."

"Did you have class today?"

"Nope," I shook my head. "I don't have classes anymore. It's basically thesis, thesis, thesis at this point."

"So how's your thesis coming along?"

I grimaced. "Still trying to figure out my concluding chapter…"

"Finishing soon?"

"I still have a bit left…" More than a bit, actually. "Hopefully I'll be done soon."

You nodded. "Good luck with that."

"Yup," I said. "Thanks. So…" I gestured in the direction I was originally headed, "I better get going, then."

You grinned. "Okay. See you around."

"Vi ses!" I called, as I started to walk away. When I heard no reply, I craned my head to look back.

You were still standing where I had left you, staring at me. "You know Swedish?" you asked.

"Nope." With a cheeky grin and a wave, I rounded the corner.


Today feels like one of those days.

I can't stop thinking about you. My stomach feels strange; squirmy. Maybe I'm hungry. But I think it's because of the dream I had about you last night.

I don't remember the dream from last night. I only woke up remembering I dreamt of you.

But there is one dream – the most vivid one of all, the very first of them all – that I still remember. That I think I will always remember.

It's the dream that set all this in motion. I wouldn't have said hi to you that first time, otherwise.

Nobody knows about this. For all they know, I only started talking to you because I felt a sense of urgency – I'm graduating this summer and time is running out. But that's not true. I only talked to you because of the dream.

Thinking about it now makes me cringe. I'm a sceptic through and through – I don't believe in prophetic dreams. I only believe in self-fulfilling prophecies – people believe in prophecies, so they subconsciously set about fulfilling them. But, for a little while, a part of me did believe in this.

The dream was a replay of what had happened just earlier in the day – I had run into you along the corridor yet again. We hadn't yet started talking then, but you had stared, as you always did.

In the day, in real life, we had held eye contact and walked past without incident.

In the dream, under the same circumstances, I had looked into your eyes and felt a strange sense of calm certainty. And then there had been a voice. A voice in my head that had divulged, like a prophet's whisper in my ear:

This is the guy you will end up marrying someday.

I had been shocked awake, like from a nightmare. And, staring into the darkness, my breaths coming in short pants, I had been overwhelmed by that feeling of absolute certainty still throbbing in my chest.

That had been the moment.

So now you know. This dream – this delusional dream – is the reason I said hi to you that night we first talked. It is the reason we ever became friends.

And I admit – it may also be the reason I still sometimes think of you as mine.

But a dream is just a dream. I know that.

I know that.

I've dreamt of you a lot since then. Too many times to count. But none of them like that first one. None of them with that same flood of emotion that completely floored me in that very first dream.

The rest of them have all been about innocent little things – us being friends, us hanging out. You turning to smile at me while saying something.

All the things we had far too little time to do.


"What are you doing over reading week, next week?"

"I'm going exploring." I beamed at you, clapping my hands together like an over-excited child.

Your eyes widened, and you smiled. "Exploring?"

"I like to play tourist sometimes." I grinned, "It's fun. And there are still so many beautiful places around here that I haven't visited."

You nodded, eyes still fixed on me. "Yeah, there are a lot of interesting places around here."

"Yup."

"So where are you going?"

"Trekking," I laughed. "I finally got my friends to agree to go with me."

"Oh? Where?"

"The hill by the reservoir." I scrunched up my nose. "It's going to be high up, so... That's a little scary. But it'll be fun."

"That's right," you said, like you'd just remembered. "You're scared of heights, aren't you?"

"Yeah," I said, squinting in embarrassment.

"Nah, it'll be fine," you said. "Nothing bad will happen."

I smiled.

"My friend was just telling me about this lake he went to over the weekend," you told me then. "There's an aerial walkway above it, so it's almost like you're walking on the water. It's supposed to be beautiful – I heard the water is very clear and blue."

"Wow, cool," I said. My eyes were wide; I love finding new places to check out. "I have to go there someday."

"Yeah." You glanced at me, then looked away. "Maybe... we could go together, sometime."

I stared at you in surprise. Aside from dinner at the mall, we had never arranged to meet up out of campus yet.

You were looking down at your hands.

It was cute, your nervousness.

"Yeah," I said, when I had found my voice. "We should."

You were finally back to making the solid eye contact I had always known you for. And you smiled – a bright, dazzling grin.

Your eyes looked like the colour of the lake you had spoken of.


Today I go to the lake.

The lake we never made it to.

It's a pattern with you, I've come to realise. You make plans, or suggestions, but you don't follow through on them. Maybe you forget. Or maybe you just don't care enough.

I'm the other way around. I don't plan much – but when I want something to happen, I go right ahead and do it.

We never did set a date for the excursion to the lake.

I wonder if we would have come eventually, if you'd stayed for the summer. I wonder if we would have done more together.

You left too quickly. I thought I would have more time with you.

Barely three whole months. That's all the time we've had together. The time since we first started speaking, after one and a half years of false starts and secret glances.

Three months.

Long enough for something to have happened, if you'd really wanted it to.

But short enough that it still keeps me wondering if it could have turned out to be more – if we'd had more time to feel each other out.

That's what my friends all tell me, these days. That we didn't have enough time.

That things might have turned out differently, if only we had enough time.

Maybe.

But maybe not.


"I have a problem," you told me, out of the blue one day. "I'm leaving for Papua New Guinea next week, but my passport is expiring. So I won't be able to renew my re-entry permit here. I won't be able to come back."

I was still reeling from the shock that you were flying off – again. You flew around a lot. I knew it was for your dissertation, your research, but...

And you were so bad at telling people about your plans in advance. You had no obligation to tell me anything, of course – I was just a casual friend... Maybe even just an acquaintance... But it stung.

I wished you'd let me know earlier.

"I always forget these things, about the visas and passports..." You were still talking, shrugging self-consciously. "Especially when I get really stressed..."

"You're not coming back?" I asked.

You ran a hand through your hair, looking away into the distance. "I don't know... I'll have to go back to Sweden straight from Papua, I suppose. Try to sort out my passport and visa. Or I'll be stuck in Papua forever." You laughed a little.

"Oh."

You were staring at me now. "So... Where will you be next semester?"

I smiled wryly. I was looking away from you, at the tree in the little courtyard behind you. "Graduated, probably."

"Then, will you be finding a job? Working here?"

I pressed my lips together. I had no plans at all. I didn't know what I was going to do after graduation. "I don't know... I'm thinking about going somewhere else." I laughed, the same embarrassed laugh you did mere minutes ago, when you were talking about being stuck in Papua New Guinea forever because of your visa issues. "There's this programme in New Zealand I'm thinking of joining."

You turned to look at the tree, too. "Yeah? And what kind of job would you be doing there?"

I laughed now. "Farming."

Your eyebrows rose. I had taken you by surprise. You gestured to your body, "That'd be good... really good for health. Healthy living, yeah?"

I chuckled. "Yeah. Really not my kind of lifestyle, probably, but..." I shrugged. "Just want a change, I guess."

We stood staring at each other. It was starting to get awkward now. There really wasn't much left to say. Our friendship – if it could be called that – mostly only revolved around grad school life. We had never made concrete plans to hang out – most of it depended on running into each other while staying late. Once I graduated...

"I guess we're not going to see each other again, then?" I was smiling.

You looked startled, like the thought hadn't occurred to you. "Nah," you said, dismissing the finality in my statement, "we will..." But you didn't make any concrete suggestions, either.

Another silence.

I spread my hands in a helpless, what-can-you-do gesture. "So... I guess... Bye, then." I looked up into your blue, blue eyes. This might be the last time I would ever look into them.

You made a sudden move towards me, hand outstretched. But you stopped short of touching me. "See you next week," you said, slowly letting your hand fall back to your side.

I crinkled up my nose. "Well... I may not be around that much next week."

"Oh." You paused, frowning. "Why?"

"Bank stuff to settle, you know – that kind of thing. I have to start preparing for... after graduation."

"Oh." You were looking at the ground now.

I smiled and flashed you two thumbs up. "But you know... Have a nice trip."

Your eyes brightened. You were always so happy when I said things like this to you – "have a safe flight", "have a nice trip"... Maybe you flew around so much that people rarely said them to you anymore.

"Thanks!" You were smiling softly. "Really, thanks. Thanks for everything." And all of a sudden, you were coming towards me, arms splayed.

I stared, rooted to the spot.

"Good luck with your thesis. You'll finish it on time, don't worry." You were still speaking, but I was only focused on the gap that was fast closing between us. You came to a stop right in front of me, so close that I couldn't see your face anymore. "Take care of yourself."

I stared at the spot where the smooth skin of your collarbone met your neck – the only thing I could see at eye-level. "You too," I croaked.

Then you leaned down and put your arms around me.

Or tried to, at least. I was standing at an angle to you, and even as your arm came to wrap around my waist, I didn't turn to fully face you.

But I did put an arm across your back, so that we were locked in an awkward half-hug for a moment. The left side of my body was pressed up against yours, but my right was turned away from you.

We stood like this for a while, before the anxiety in the pit of my stomach grew to be too much. My hand moved of its own accord to clap you on the back, in between your shoulder blades.

There was a loud sound from the impact, and I almost cringed.

You let go of me and turned to take a few steps away. Maybe you felt as awkward as I did. I was staring off to the side, unable to look you in the eye.

You turned back around to look at me. You were still smiling. "Hey, keep in touch, okay? Write me on Facebook sometimes." You put up your hands to mime typing.

I scrunched up my nose. "Ugh, I hate Facebook."

You stared in surprise. I wasn't following the social script for friendly, polite farewells.

I blinked at you, and then I smiled. "But yeah," I said, nodding, "I will. I will."

I don't know how real my smile looked. But I knew I wasn't going to write you on Facebook. I think you knew it too.

"Yeah," you said. You were starting to turn away yourself. Your eyelids were starting to lower, to hide your eyes.

"Yeah," I said, taking a few steps backward, "maybe I'll see you again... someday..." I shrugged and spread my hands, palms up.

You turned to look at me. You lifted a hand to wave. "Yeah... See you."

I lifted my hand too. "See you."

And that was the last thing I said to you.


Today I am at a gallery opening. The exhibits are superb, but I am not paying much attention to them.

There is a guy standing across the room, watching me.

He reminds me a little of you.

I sneak glances at him. Our gazes have collided more than twice now, but we both look away whenever our eyes meet. He has blue eyes, too. Not as blue as yours can get sometimes, when you're really happy, but still nice in their own way.

I wonder if he's going to come over to introduce himself. But it's fine, even if he doesn't.

I'm trying to forget the way I feel for you, but I'm not completely ready to feel this way about someone else, either.

This is nice, though. Exchanging glances with another guy. Feeling like something new could happen. Feeling like I am a step closer to moving on with my life.

Today, I am doing well.

And I hope that you are, too.


FIN


A/N: The title is supposed to mean "take care" in Swedish. I think. Please correct me if I'm wrong, I never double-checked this with a Swede.

I wrote this story about my 'ice boy', the same guy I wrote about in Where I Learn From My Mistakes, because I obviously did not learn from my mistakes.

Well... What's there left to say? I think I've said most of it in the story. So I'll let it speak for itself. I'm sorry it's quite fragmented and a lot of things have to be inferred. Still, I just had to get it out.

Also, I guess this is it. No more writing about Swedish boys for me in the short-term. (Although I do have yet another story that I started recently that is also partly about him... Ugh.)

Anyway, please review and let me know what you think. (On a sidenote, it's been so long since I've posted such a short one-shot, no?! Heh.)