Throughout my secondary school year, I have encountered many people in relationships. You name it, I've seen it: stormy, lovey-dovey, the obscene, constructing castles in the sky, fumbling when people stumbled upon them, love today hate tomorrow love again today, cat fights...
And through it all I play a role that seems most unsuitable for a man: the matchmaker. To clarify, I rarely introduce two people together. Instead I help mend the relationship with patches here and there. If something is going to make them happy, I'm willing to do it. They share their secrets with me and I don't go around yelling that the king have donkey ears. The secrets are safe with me.
In one case, I helped to jumpstart a relationship. The boy know the girl (they are in the same club) and the flammable stuff are already there. A few simple tasks like making a fake ID (school, not national) and printing the girl's picture at a photo shop generates the needed sparks. I am happy for them. At the same time, I slide deeper into depression.
I am the matchmaker. And the matchmaker is lonely.
Leave me alone while I listen to Spandau Ballet's Trough the Barricades.