Full disclosure:
I thought my roommate in Montreal was 6'2" perfection.
This might not be a surprise to most people who know me in real life, but I've never fully admitted to the feelings I felt for him on this blog. This blog is a public venue, so the things I write on here are the kind of things that I'd tell anyone; they're not embarrassing or revealing. I feel comfortable posting the things that I do because I never divulge too much information. But some things I keep to myself because I feel that they mean too much to me.
And that's why I never explicitly admitted the feelings I felt for my roommate on here. To admit on this blog that what I felt for him was intense and overwhelming was a truth I did not want to acknowledge publicly. I felt as though admitting my feelings for him online would somehow break confidence. Would somehow betray me and him. I'm a somewhat private person, which is why I shy away from sharing the names of most of the dudes in my life, save for the hubbies, boyfriends, and lovers. Obvi. And my roommate falls under the blanket of people I keep close to my heart. I cherish the memories I have of him because, while most of the time I lived with him was excruciatingly awkward, when we spent time together -- just us two -- he made me feel smart. And cute. And funny. Not many guys have made me feel that way -- I've had guys who have made me feel clumsy and undesirable, obnoxious and gaudy, a few who've made me feel sexy. The way I felt around my roommate was (as cheesy and saccharine as it is to admit it) special.
I didn't meet him the moment I got to Montreal, though I was excited to make his acquaintance from the moment we'd talked on the phone. When I talked to him on the phone, he seemed energetic and confident. He had a discernible Quebecois accent, but spoke near-perfect English. He sounded, well, cute. And from the moment I met him, all I wanted to do was spend time with him, which, of course, conflicted with my natural disposition of avoiding attractive human beings at all cost. But there was something alluring about the way he would say "ouais", the way he'd play music in his room every night, the way he'd curl the hair at the nape of his neck whenever he'd talk to me, the way he'd laugh at any awkward thing I'd say to him. I mean, this was a guy who thought my over-use of the expression "fuck a duck" was hilarious. Being around him was addictive.
And I hated it, but craved it; the same way I hate how I feel when I over-indulge in chocolate, but crave it, anyway.
When we first met, I had just gotten out of the shower and was wrapped in my red towel. My hair was knotted and, while I didn't wear much makeup back then, I did wear mascara, so when I met him, my face was 100% clean of makeup, save for a pair of raccoon eyes because I'd failed to remove my makeup before showering (still do that, fyi).
I was unaccustomed to living with men other than my father, so I'd stepped out of the bathroom and was greeted with a merry, "Salut!" His big reveal was boisterous and cheerful, surprising and alarming. It was just like him. And I'll be the first to admit that from the moment I met him, he made me happy. His joie de vivre was contagious and seeing him bounce from foot to foot as we chatted -- I was still wrapped in my towel, by the way (and feeling 100% awkward) -- made me smile as I recognized a kindred spirit who had too much nervous energy than he knew what to do with. I excused myself after a bit and went to get dressed.
We didn't talk much after our initial meeting, but he would greet me with a cheerful "bon matin!" every morning, would leave the hall lights on for me when I stayed out late, would whisper "bonne nuit" to me every night through my closed door. Every morning I would wake up to the sound of his rolling chair gliding across the hardwood floor of his bedroom. And every morning, the moment I opened the door to my bedroom, he would whistle from wherever he was in the apartment like an automated response system; I would hear it coming from the kitchen as he made his breakfast; I would hear it coming from the bathroom as he shaved; I would hear it from the living room as he ate.
Our relationship consisted of crumb-sized moments I came to expect and anticipate every day; I was starved for romance and could live on such meagre rations. But these tiny moments were part and parcel of our system; he would alert me that he was awake and in a particular part in the apartment so I wouldn't startle upon seeing him every morning; he would leave the hall light on so I wouldn't trip over the shoes in the dark entryway; he would bid me goodnight so I knew he was turning in. I'm not sure if he realized we had a system, but it was reliable and consistent and comforted me.
Looking back on my time in Montreal, I know he played a huge role in me falling in love with the city. Part of my reason for leaving in the first place was confusion over whether I wanted to stay because I cared for him, or because I genuinely saw myself there. Six years later, I'm still pining for a city that captivated me, but my roommate has become a happy, albeit distant, memory of something that could never be. But I know that our story played out the way it was meant to.
I remember I bawled the entire flight home to Edmonton. Start to finish. I knew that whether I came back to Montreal or not, I'd never see him again and--
Fuck. It still stings the tiniest bit.
And it's oddly touching to me how our first "hello" and final "goodbye" were perfect bookends to each other. See, our final moments the night before I flew back to Edmonton, I was fully dressed and he had just gotten out of the shower and was in nothing but his white towel. His hair was matted to his forehead still; his shoulders still glistened with water; he smelled of soap when we hugged. It was awkward and a little embarrassing for us both; in contrast to our first meeting, neither of us was cheerful or boisterous. Both of us were timid and quiet and uncommunicative. I'm convinced he always knew I harboured a crush on him; my face is a neon sign that obnoxiously defines every one of my emotions. I've never been able to hide the way I feel, nor do I want to. But I think my crush on him -- and the fact that we were both aware of my feelings for him -- stilted our goodbye: we both felt the weight of my feelings for him. (I'll admit that his state of near-undress might have had something to do with it, too.)
I knew from the moment I heard his voice on the phone that I would like him. I knew -- even then -- that nothing would come of my crush on him. I knew I had to be careful with my heart because Montreal wasn't my permanent home. And despite knowing all that, I went and fell for him like I knew I would. I pined after him for years after leaving Montreal because my heart clings, while my brain pushes. I was careless with my heart, but that's nothing new.
But now that I find myself thinking back on him, I can't help but smile; liking him was a surprising gift. Liking him taught me to distinguish between fantasy and reality. Liking him proved to me that I was self-aware. Liking him opened my eyes to the beauty of Montreal. Liking him was the first time I learned that I was smart and funny and cute. Liking him taught me that there's no such thing as being out of someone's league. Liking him was sweet. And I wouldn't trade that experience for anything.
This might not be a surprise to most people who know me in real life, but I've never fully admitted to the feelings I felt for him on this blog. This blog is a public venue, so the things I write on here are the kind of things that I'd tell anyone; they're not embarrassing or revealing. I feel comfortable posting the things that I do because I never divulge too much information. But some things I keep to myself because I feel that they mean too much to me.
And that's why I never explicitly admitted the feelings I felt for my roommate on here. To admit on this blog that what I felt for him was intense and overwhelming was a truth I did not want to acknowledge publicly. I felt as though admitting my feelings for him online would somehow break confidence. Would somehow betray me and him. I'm a somewhat private person, which is why I shy away from sharing the names of most of the dudes in my life, save for the hubbies, boyfriends, and lovers. Obvi. And my roommate falls under the blanket of people I keep close to my heart. I cherish the memories I have of him because, while most of the time I lived with him was excruciatingly awkward, when we spent time together -- just us two -- he made me feel smart. And cute. And funny. Not many guys have made me feel that way -- I've had guys who have made me feel clumsy and undesirable, obnoxious and gaudy, a few who've made me feel sexy. The way I felt around my roommate was (as cheesy and saccharine as it is to admit it) special.
I didn't meet him the moment I got to Montreal, though I was excited to make his acquaintance from the moment we'd talked on the phone. When I talked to him on the phone, he seemed energetic and confident. He had a discernible Quebecois accent, but spoke near-perfect English. He sounded, well, cute. And from the moment I met him, all I wanted to do was spend time with him, which, of course, conflicted with my natural disposition of avoiding attractive human beings at all cost. But there was something alluring about the way he would say "ouais", the way he'd play music in his room every night, the way he'd curl the hair at the nape of his neck whenever he'd talk to me, the way he'd laugh at any awkward thing I'd say to him. I mean, this was a guy who thought my over-use of the expression "fuck a duck" was hilarious. Being around him was addictive.
And I hated it, but craved it; the same way I hate how I feel when I over-indulge in chocolate, but crave it, anyway.
When we first met, I had just gotten out of the shower and was wrapped in my red towel. My hair was knotted and, while I didn't wear much makeup back then, I did wear mascara, so when I met him, my face was 100% clean of makeup, save for a pair of raccoon eyes because I'd failed to remove my makeup before showering (still do that, fyi).
I was unaccustomed to living with men other than my father, so I'd stepped out of the bathroom and was greeted with a merry, "Salut!" His big reveal was boisterous and cheerful, surprising and alarming. It was just like him. And I'll be the first to admit that from the moment I met him, he made me happy. His joie de vivre was contagious and seeing him bounce from foot to foot as we chatted -- I was still wrapped in my towel, by the way (and feeling 100% awkward) -- made me smile as I recognized a kindred spirit who had too much nervous energy than he knew what to do with. I excused myself after a bit and went to get dressed.
We didn't talk much after our initial meeting, but he would greet me with a cheerful "bon matin!" every morning, would leave the hall lights on for me when I stayed out late, would whisper "bonne nuit" to me every night through my closed door. Every morning I would wake up to the sound of his rolling chair gliding across the hardwood floor of his bedroom. And every morning, the moment I opened the door to my bedroom, he would whistle from wherever he was in the apartment like an automated response system; I would hear it coming from the kitchen as he made his breakfast; I would hear it coming from the bathroom as he shaved; I would hear it from the living room as he ate.
Our relationship consisted of crumb-sized moments I came to expect and anticipate every day; I was starved for romance and could live on such meagre rations. But these tiny moments were part and parcel of our system; he would alert me that he was awake and in a particular part in the apartment so I wouldn't startle upon seeing him every morning; he would leave the hall light on so I wouldn't trip over the shoes in the dark entryway; he would bid me goodnight so I knew he was turning in. I'm not sure if he realized we had a system, but it was reliable and consistent and comforted me.
Looking back on my time in Montreal, I know he played a huge role in me falling in love with the city. Part of my reason for leaving in the first place was confusion over whether I wanted to stay because I cared for him, or because I genuinely saw myself there. Six years later, I'm still pining for a city that captivated me, but my roommate has become a happy, albeit distant, memory of something that could never be. But I know that our story played out the way it was meant to.
I remember I bawled the entire flight home to Edmonton. Start to finish. I knew that whether I came back to Montreal or not, I'd never see him again and--
Fuck. It still stings the tiniest bit.
And it's oddly touching to me how our first "hello" and final "goodbye" were perfect bookends to each other. See, our final moments the night before I flew back to Edmonton, I was fully dressed and he had just gotten out of the shower and was in nothing but his white towel. His hair was matted to his forehead still; his shoulders still glistened with water; he smelled of soap when we hugged. It was awkward and a little embarrassing for us both; in contrast to our first meeting, neither of us was cheerful or boisterous. Both of us were timid and quiet and uncommunicative. I'm convinced he always knew I harboured a crush on him; my face is a neon sign that obnoxiously defines every one of my emotions. I've never been able to hide the way I feel, nor do I want to. But I think my crush on him -- and the fact that we were both aware of my feelings for him -- stilted our goodbye: we both felt the weight of my feelings for him. (I'll admit that his state of near-undress might have had something to do with it, too.)
I knew from the moment I heard his voice on the phone that I would like him. I knew -- even then -- that nothing would come of my crush on him. I knew I had to be careful with my heart because Montreal wasn't my permanent home. And despite knowing all that, I went and fell for him like I knew I would. I pined after him for years after leaving Montreal because my heart clings, while my brain pushes. I was careless with my heart, but that's nothing new.
But now that I find myself thinking back on him, I can't help but smile; liking him was a surprising gift. Liking him taught me to distinguish between fantasy and reality. Liking him proved to me that I was self-aware. Liking him opened my eyes to the beauty of Montreal. Liking him was the first time I learned that I was smart and funny and cute. Liking him taught me that there's no such thing as being out of someone's league. Liking him was sweet. And I wouldn't trade that experience for anything.
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