It is not that I always like this--sometimes I yearn for tho

It is not that I always like this--sometimes I yearn for those days when tears and laughter both came easily.Those easy and quick transitions from ecstasy to despair.When a compliment could keep my mind occupied for hours on end and the harsh word could prick like a pin the same skin which now seems dry and insensive.Like probably millions around the world,I look outside the windows of the crowded bus,lost in my own thoughts and wonder how it could happen to me.Was I not supposed to be diffierent from the rest?Not for me the silly girl infatuation with the football team captain or fascination with the good for nothing ,smoking,aspiring poet.Ours was a mature friendship that had blossomed into more.How could I feel a pang of envy then,when you lent a helping hand to another girl,and when you spoke about someone who is far away and about to be married,when you were involved in your work and did not notice that we never met yet.When we descided that we should meet,I carefully started preparing a package for you,a small poem ,a wooden lovyly foot I brought thousand miles away,a bar of chocolate for us to share.What would I wear and what would we talk about?The package still remains in my drawer  waiting for my phone to ring again.