Where Freedom is Responsibility

Today, in the UK, it is the longest day. As I type up my thoughts and feelings at eleven o'clock at night, the sun continues to shine in the sky as if mocking my sense of time - but it would not be incorrect. The events of yesterday are raw and feel as though it were all a dream. Everything around me is surrounded in mist and the only thing that is clear to me is that I am typing to clarify things.

My writing has taken a hit in the worst way. I have been slacking off, dismissing my own principles, criticizing any work that I manage to dribble out of my idle mind. I feel as though I'm letting people down through all of my choices. 

Yesterday, I returned to my university out of free will. 

Well, sort of. My friend asked if she could get a ride up and I agreed to it since I hadn't been to training for months. There was also a photoshoot happening which I had planned so I figured it would be the mature thing to attend it. These are only some of the excuses I made. I can come up with more: I was bored; I felt obligated; I really really wanted to see him again. 

I had been planning this for weeks. I wanted to see him there, I knew he would be there and I wanted to prepare myself for what I would say. 

There was nothing I could say.

I walked into that hall, staring at him from a distance and ended up judging myself for my decision. 

I caved. That was what happened. I sought attention and went about it in the worst way possible. I knew subconsciously yet I let myself go. I should have taken more responsibility for myself, my mental health and my principles.

As things were, we got teamed up for training and his hands were on me once again. There was nothing melodramatic about it. Just cold hands on top of my clammy ones, twisting them into position. I wish I could say there was a spark there, or we flinched when we touch, or at least something - if only to say there was history between us. But there was nothing.

Everything was in my head.

This guy doesn't care about me. He hasn't spoken to me. And even though he held my hand there, looked me right in the eye, said my name confidently, he doesn't give a crap.

I've been hurt about it before. I'm still hurt. But this made it real.

What am I supposed to do?

How do I make this go away?

How do I stop?