You stopped talking after that night. After a whole week of anticipation leading up to that moment - that moment we locked eyes from across the room, with tension that we could cut through with a knife. In that moment, you walked up to my table, and said hello, hey, how are you? It's been six months, we finally meet in person.

Was I who you imagined? Did my looks, my charm, my personality fall short of what you expected? That thought crossed my mind when the texts stopped coming. But maybe not, because you knew who I was the moment I walked into the room. I could feel your eyes on me as I pretended not to see you. But in reality, I saw you from outside the club, through the glass window. You were a little shorter than I expected, but you looked as good as you did in your pictures, with your ruffled hair and easy smile.

In any case, you recognized me immediately, so I must have at least looked like the pictures I posted. You eventually sauntered over to me, pushing through the crowd, intent on introducing yourself to me and my friends. You even promised we would see each other again afterwards.

My therapist said I shouldn't ascribe any meaning to your actions, and I should just take them at face value. So, basically what she was really trying to tell me was that you meant it when you said 'see you soon' right? You meant it when you held my hand, and said it was lovely to finally meet me? Did you really think the stars had to align for us to bump into each other in another country, like what you wrote in your text messages immediately after? Did you think our meeting was fate's way of telling us we were made for each other? That we deserved each other - at least in that moment?

Seeing as we only met briefly, I could only think that the reason why you stopped all forms of communication afterwards was because after thinking long and hard about it, you realized that you didn't like the way I looked. Why would you anyway? Look at how fat I looked in that dress. Look at how noisy and loud I was around my friends. Around you. So unrefined. Unladylike. How was that attractive enough for someone like you?

When you sent me your very last text at 1:30am in the morning saying 'I am so fucked right now' - were you trying to tell me that you drank way too much? or did you accidentally sent me a thought that was meant to stay in your mind - were you telling yourself that you shouldn't have tried so hard to see me because you were never going to ask me out for dinner anyway? Were you scared because now instead of me being just a figment of your imagination, I was suddenly a real, whole person with feelings, and trauma, and memories? Or maybe you were frightened because you were unexpectedly falling in love with the idea of me, even though you had no idea who I was?

Your silence broke me. It was not entirely your fault - I had just come out of a serious relationship, and was looking for some sort of validation, which now that I come to think about it, it was perhaps too much of a burden to put on your narrow shoulders. But I am not going to lie, you took a toll on my self-esteem and self-worth. I don't want it to, but I just think about how you saw me in person - and made a split-second decision to leave me. In a second, you decided that maybe I was unlovable. Or worse still, I was un-fuckable. Because maybe I am. Maybe I am not. I suppose it depends on the person. But, when we locked eyes in that club, a part of me wished you were just a little different.

I can't help but imagine how you felt when you saw my texts appear on your phone. Did you immediately clear those notifications, and pretended that night never happened? Or are you keeping my thoughts on your screen, hoping that one day you will have enough courage to send me that wall of text you've been meaning to send after our night together?

I guess I will never know. Or maybe I will. Someday.