I hate Saturdays.
They only make me remember of the day we first met and how the planets seemed to align on that not-so-perfect moment. Saturdays make me remember of our awkward hello's and furtive glances, of how my name sounded like a spell when he first said it, of how his smile captivated me right then and there.
I hate Saturdays.
They only bring back the memories of our first, second, third, nth date — the afternoons when he fetched me at work; the dinners we had in fastfoods, fancy restaurants and at my house; the last full shows of sci-fi, action and horror movies; the midnight stargazings on his apartment's rooftop; and the drunk conversations we had at 2 AMs.
I hate Saturdays.
I can't stand the flashbacks of his warm touch as we held hands, of his husky voice as he sang Lauv's songs, of his intense burning gazes in his candle-lit room, of his soft whimpers and pleased groans as I massaged him from head to toe. Fucking Saturdays make me gasp as I remember his slow lingering kisses under warm sheets during rainy nights, the trails he left while mapping my skin using his lips, and the heavens we reached together while moaning each other's names.
I used to love Saturdays until one day, we stopped marking our calendars with plans and spontaneous trips. I used to love the sunrises of Saturdays until one day, we became the sunsets we used to watch side by side.
On the second Saturday of May, we stopped wishing together for our Saturdays not to end. One day, we stopped being each other's Saturday.
And that's when he told me, he already found his Sunday.