When I have a bad hangover, or am sick or overtired, I sometimes get nosebleeds. Apparently, I also get nosebleeds if I’m over-excited.
On Wednesday night, after The Kiss, I was bouncing excitedly into Trinity Hall, when my nose started bleeding. Bleeding with joy. I met three of my boys. (In this case, “my boys” means my flatmates. I also use “my boys” to describe the members of One Direction. It can get confusing.) The boys asked me how my date had gone. I was barely coherent. I told them about The Kiss. I was one third laughing, one third crying and one third trying to stem the flow of blood from my nose. I jumped up and down a bit. I hugged two of the boys. Twice. I didn’t hug the third because at that stage blood was pumping out of my nose like water into the Titanic. I think I told them that I loved them all. And one of them resignedly said, “We love you too.”
I also remember saying, tearfully, “He likes me” as they walked away amused and bemused by my hyperactivity, excitement and blood.
I got to my bedroom, a flurry of emotions. I stopped the blood. And I started getting angry at myself. How had I allowed myself to get so used to being alone? How had I let my life just coast? Why the hell had I pressed ‘pause’ for four years? I started crying. I sobbed. I was crying so loud that I heard a timid knock on the door. The lovely 19-year-old physics student from the bedroom next to mine had heard me crying. He stood there in his pyjamas, offering to talk. Thank God I didn’t take him up on the offer. I would have kept him awake all night.
I didn’t get to sleep myself till well after 4:00 am.
I woke up in the morning, bathed in the glow of The Kiss again. I went in to college. I (literally) bounced up and down telling my friends there all about it. Then I went to work and bounced around a bit more telling more friends. I spent the day basking in that Kiss.
Today, I decided, was the day he should text me. I set an alarm on my phone for 2:30 pm. If he didn’t text by then, I would text him. To be honest, I didn’t need to set an alarm. There was no way I’d let 2:30 pass without noticing. I just liked the drama that setting the alarm added.
I went for lunch with a friend. At 2:30, my phone rang. I jumped sky-high and grabbed my phone with excitement. “Life is like the movies!” I thought “He’s texted just before I was going to give in and text him.”
But he hadn’t. It wasn’t a text message. It was an alarm, to let me know it was time to text him.
I texted him. He answered. I texted again. He answered. I texted. He still hasn’t answered.
Eight hours later.
One of his texts says he’s “totally up for meeting”. Which is good, but he hasn’t answered the one where I suggested an actual time and place.
I’m a nervous wreck. While I adore the drama of it all, I think if I check my phone one more time it might explode.
I need my third date.
Keep your fingers, toes and outer extremities crossed for me!