In the end, it always ends. It's the Six Week Slow Fade, and by now I can see it coming from miles away. Six weeks being the length of time that my charm remains charming, apparently. It's become so predictable, so routine, that this time I don't even have to hang around for weeks more, wondering if that's what's really happening or if I'm just going crazy, if he's just busy; I don't have to wait around to find out exactly how little he's willing to give me, not this time. It's happened all before. Andrew. Jimmy. Luke. Just enough time for my guard to drop. Just enough time to hope. And then the disappearing act. I tried to hold back this time. I always do, now. I always try not to let myself like him too much. I try to remain a bit apart. Did I succeed? This awful, knotty, crushing feeling that is much more than just wounded pride tells me that I didn't. I let myself get hurt again and I could kick myself, could slap, pinch, pull hair, and I have been, only on the inside where you can't see.
And in the end, contrary to the dire predictions, it wasn't even because he was Muslim, and it had nothing to do with cultural or religious or linguistic differences. I thought that maybe this time I had found someone different, but in the end, he ended up to be just like every other guy.