It’s been a while, but I’m back

Finally reaching the end of my kind-of gap year, I’m back here, in my supposedly hometown? Being born in this bustling city, being able to speak sort of fluently the language, I’m ashamed of how foreign I feel back here. Do places belong to people, or do people belong to places? Who owns who? And do we have a say in the matter?
Philosophy aside, a lot has happened between the gap where I stopped writing online and now. Many of those can’t really be distilled into words, partly because I’m selfish, too selfish to share many of these precious memories with anyone else, as if the moment I write them out, they’d no longer be mine, but someone else’s life. Largely it is because I’m too articulate, too anal with the details, I feel the need the jot them down, every single second, every glance we exchange, the silent pulses within their veins, the waves that caresses my feet, everything, absolutely everything. I’m not saying it was impossible to put them into words, but my aspiration was handicapped by laziness and capped with my excuse for “lack of time”. Though I have to say, of all the things that have happened, the pain and the joy and the ecstasy and the fear, I’m eternally grateful to have the chance to experience that many incredible things, to encounter that many variations of people, to witness some staggering sights, to feel such sensations and sentiments that I didn’t even know exist, to connect, and to let go.
About Hanoi, since I got back here, things have been, like usual, quite turbulent. Romance first, cutting straight to the point, I’ve met someone, at a party last Saturday. We somehow skipped the mundane small talk, and with my hair swiftly glide through the wind on the back of his motorbike, we spilled our childhoods, his favourite scents, the types of music that I love, our religion views, where we want to live when we’re older, what keeps us up at night, how much certain things mean to us, my insecurities, and his fear. I didn’t know why, but I felt safe, very very safe. “Can’t believe we just met tonight, I actually feel really comfortable with you right here, right now” he uttered. And in my smile, he knew he wasn’t the only one that felt that way. I didn’t know what to do, with his arms wrapped around me and us curling up here on the tiny bed. I wanted to be one of those people who have streaks to maintain, who scorch the ground with their intensity, but at that moment I lacked the courage, and I was gawky and he was gorgeous, and I was boring and he was endlessly fascinating. We went for breakfast the next day, and although the intense talk continued, there was a tinge of awkwardness. He asked for my number and facebook nevertheless. I waited, waited and waited. In the end I gave in and messaged him. And waited and waited. But nothing. A big fat nothing. So there I am, walking back to my room, with unanswered questions and disappointment, collapsing on the bed, thinking if people were rain, I was a drizzle and he was a hurricane. (quoting Looking for Alaska since I could not find another simile that’d fit). What’s worse than knowing that you want something, besides knowing that you can never have it? I felt like a fool. I already said too much. I already shared too much, and I want all my secrets back. I hate getting close to people these days, I always regret sharing too much, caring too much, doing too much, feeling too much. I never really found out what was worse, the fact that he didn’t care, or the fact that I actually did.