I must’ve released a grumpy genie when I last dusted through the trophy cabinet. Because I’ve gotten exactly what I wished for. And then some.
I’m depressed.
Seriously.
And it’s certainly not the whimsy I anticipated.
No decadent black mood, or the playlist of a cheated generation looping on my Windows media player, just a vacant centre and a feeling similar to that of dropping a vital set of keys in live lava.
It was lunch with the girls. After months of promises of meeting up, and the occasional miss call or sms to re-link, it took a friend going over to the UK for nine months and returning, to bring us all together, finally.
And it was just like old times, sparking flashbacks of campus scenes at the coffee shop and RAU carpark. Nothing had changed.
But everything had.
Two of them married, one three weeks away from being dispatched to domesticity, and the other two faced with what could be very promising prospects.
And me.
Sitting there, smiling at the right times, laughing in the right places and saying the right things. Being Saaleha and hating it.
It’s not that I’m lonely in that 'pathetic' sense. I count truly fabulous and genuine people as friends and I’m comfortable being on my own, without any sensation of the skin creeping off me to seek better company.
But I am alone.
And the scary thing is; well, this really scares me.
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