On expectations.

Expectations, relationships, and Koh Phangan, Thailand.

I expected Koh Phangan to be a party town. One where I’d spend my days relaxing on the beach and my nights drinking buckets until I passed out. In five nights there, though, I mostly sipped beer, nary finished a bucket, hardly even made it to inebriated.

I expected to leave my hostel after one night. It was cheap but I didn’t even have a mattress, just a thin mat on a bamboo frame. I woke up every morning with my back aching. But it ended up the kind of place where every person staying became fast friends. And so I had no desire to leave.

I expected that the too cute Aussie with curly hair and amazing eyes who walked right by me several times at the hostel would never actually have a conversation with me.

So when, at a pool party on my second night in town, he kissed me, I didn’t expect it to be any more than a one night stand.

But then we hung out the next day. And night. And the next. And we ate every meal together. We went out at night together. We celebrated a new friend’s birthday. We went for private walks on the beach. We stood in the water and watched the stars and the waves. We made creations in the sand.

I didn’t expect him to be so sweet, so smart, so patient and caring.

And I certainly didn’t expect to like him as much as I did.

I expected that by now I’d have learned that I don’t have to do what I think I should do. That I make myself miserable sticking to nonexistent plans rather than following my heart. But instead of leaving with him I made too many excuses not to. He’s too young for me. He never actually asked me to come with. He should be spending time with his friends.

I didn’t expect it to be so hard to hold him and kiss him goodbye. To watch him walk away. To let him go. To stay behind.