Postcard from Paris

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.