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At first it was funny, how normative his worldview was. He who beared all the markings of a man –and a mature, attractive one at that– but still simple (and to me, subsequently juvenile) in his thinking. It’s like you’ve never questioned anything in your life, I would marvel. It’s like life told you to go buy a house and get married and have babies and you’re stupid enough to believe that it’s what you want, I would laugh. Just a boy, just a boy, just a 25 year-old overgrown boy. Then, months later, he is sitting in front of me in a shirt speaking of doing things, and going places, and sleeping early, and quitting cigarettes and other life things I realise at that moment that I clearly have no grasp of. It’s an age thing; you’ll feel this way when you’re my age, he says with intentionally reassuring (but unintentionally pitying) eyes. And there I am. Just a girl, just a girl, a silly, frivolous girl – still rejecting the set societal paradigms like a hopeless revolutionary romantic; still pretending to resist all the things that I know (and have known for a long time) we’ll all eventually succumb to; still refusing to grow up. And perhaps he’s known this all this time, seen through me like I thought I saw through him. And what can I do but to look at him and admit to my inexperience and my youth – because at least that’s easier than acknowledging the growing distance between us two.