This is a part of my “Postcard From” series, where I write to someone, whether it be my past or future self, a family member, a friend, or a guy, with the perspective that a new city gives me.
I shouldn’t have texted you.
I have never regretted sending a message that quickly before. I knew it was a mistake before I even saw your little face bubble fall down, indicating that you read it.
I told you that I liked you. I hinted that I thought you were attractive. Usually I wouldn’t regret hitting on a guy, telling him that I’m interested, because even if I get rejected at least I was still ballsy.
The problem is that I don’t actually like you, and now I just look ridiculous.
You must be thinking, “why the hell would you tell a guy you like him when you really don’t? Who does that?”.
Well, me apparently. A version of me that had only 2 hours of sleep on my night bus from London to Paris. A Victoria who was high on the fact that she was only 5 days into her first long-ish trip.
I was in the city of love, for crying out loud! Give me a break, a little leeway to be stupid. I was swept away by the beauty of Paris, of the couples lying on the ground in front of the Eiffel Tower, the people stopping to kiss on every sidewalk. I was going to force myself to have a love story, despite there being no chemistry or feelings past friendship.
Don’t get me wrong, you’re one of the better guys I know, which is why I was so easily able to trick myself into thinking I liked you for a few hours.
It’s not you, it’s not me. It’s Paris.