A curious sort of heartache.

That night, when you walked towards me, I thought it funny that we were dressed compatibly. Black and white. Then it wasn't funny anymore when someone mistook me for your girlfriend, or when your acquaintance shook both our hands because he thought I was your date.

Minus the unfunny bits, I was glad that at least we could talk to each other normally. We laughed and felt stupid together when we realised we sat at the wrong table. The light-heartedness lasted for quite a while. We chatted like we never stopped talking to each other. You excitedly talked about your preparation for what's to come. Part of me was happy for you. The rest was mostly resignation and a curious heartache. But I still listened intently, offered my suggestions and smiled. Then others started talking to you. I was relieved that I did not have to smile anymore.

As the evening wore on, I grew increasingly tired. There was laughter all around and meaningless chatter. I can't remember what caught our attention and caused us to turn and face each other. I guess you finally sensed that I wasn't that comfortable in your presence. I averted my gaze, turned back to my food and looked around. Then I saw us seated together. Our reflections in the glass had caught my eye. I wonder if you had seen what I saw.

We parted after the dinner ended. When I reached home, the mascara-stained tears started rolling down my cheeks. I went to bed thinking how foolish I am for feeling this way. How foolish.