i had to get this off my chest, i hope you never see this.
In my head, I’ve written to you so many letters, we lose track of what’s been said and what’s left unsaid.
Soon, it’ll be 2 years since…
Well, since the day we chose to celebrate our love on each year. For all we knew, we had loved each other all our lives. We couldn’t choose a day. So we chose the day right after Valentine’s. It felt right then.
I think I’ll write to you each year. I might never send them but I’ll hold these letters close to my heart, closer to memory. And in my head, I’ll always come up with new stories where our paths cross again, years from now. Whether it’s at a college reunion, or at the opening of the store you’ve dreamt of for years, I’ll recognise your wild laugh from afar and my hellos will sober up, my feet will grow softer.
It won’t be “love” then. It’ll be something in between “love” and “memory”. It’ll be a feeling that can only be described as- ghastly.
I picture us, having met after years of no voice on either line. A conversation or two where we catch up on everyone’s well-being and careers. I ask about your dog, you ask me about my mother. I ask about your friends, you ask about my studies. You question if I ever got my masters degree and I wonder if and when you got your first tattoo, and just what it is. I ask if your brother found his way to America, if he got his happy ending, and you ask me about my brother and that you see him online sometimes.
Hours later, we’ll be in our own separate rooms and a feeling would’ve followed us to bed.
That ghastly feeling, where it doesn’t hurt anymore but it doesn’t make us happy either. Where it weakens us to our knees but no tears really come. Where our hearts aren’t yelling and fists aren’t bleeding. Where we simply exist, and there’s a prick; like a hole in the wall and water starts to leak and drip. Where we only pray that this leak doesn’t flood the whole damn city and we can go back to our lives as normal; or we wake up one morning and it’s all spontaneous but we’re packing our bags and looking up flights.
That ghastly feeling follows us and haunts us and could ruin us. It’s an omen. It’s a shadow that could make or break us.
But in the present, here and now, I’m with you but only miles apart. There’s still silence on either side of the line and I can’t remember the last time we said our “I love yous”. In the present, I watch a movie and I can almost hear your commentary interrupted by your laugh. We’re on the phone and having a virtual date, watching a movie in a language you don’t understand, solely because you liked one of the songs from the soundtrack. You laugh and I have to rewind 10 seconds because I like paying attention to every detail. A 2 hour movie turns into 4 hours and it’s late, but you never get tired no matter how long your day had been.
You’d like this movie, I think.
In the present, I’m thinking of all the people you called “friends” but never really trusted. They took you for granted. But you always stayed. I’m afraid of my trembling hands that won’t think but instantly dial your number in a crisis, because after all, yours is the only number I still have memorised after my parents’.
In the present, I’m counting down the days with you and I remember everything like it was yesterday. I was washing my face and I found myself smiling as I remembered how you moved to a better apartment so I wouldn’t complain of dust anymore. I remember the bed you got, a bed big enough to take up all the space in your tiny bedroom. All so we could both sleep in on early Wednesday mornings when classes were slow and breakfast almost absent.
I remember you fondly, despite everything that’s happened since those late January sunsets from the terrace in your flat. I thought I’d be left with bitter memories and all the things you did that I hated. But our brains are a funny thing and I can no longer remember just why and how you got me so angry at times.
I remember you fondly, the way I wish I remembered old friends that I lost to scandals and my cat that I lost to illness. I remember you fondly, like if we met tomorrow, I wouldn’t hesitate to shake your hand, smile at you and ask about your mother.
Loving you felt like time had stopped just for us. I’d spend the whole day with you and look forward to the next, just to spend more time with you; whether it was doing laundry, or doing skin care, or cooking or even just sleeping in. There were no obligations or deadlines or responsibilities to get to. There was no “time’s up”. There was no reason to get out of bed ever. It was just us, even in a crowded room. Love doesn’t feel the same for me anymore. By 2pm, there’s lunch to worry about and by 7pm, there’s work to get to. 8am classes to attend and an exam in a month that costs me my future.
I miss how everything in our relationship felt like a vacation, a constant rendezvous. Like in our own bubble, we had nothing to do but spend our money eating and drinking. I wanted for us to have one day of being Jay Gatsby, but I never realised that our whole relationship was a party every single day where you and I were the hosts as well as the guests.
The real world calls both you and I now. It’s a call we can no longer ignore.
I don’t love you anymore. It’s true.
But I don’t hate you either.
I do hate a lot of your habits and the vile man you become when you’re too consumed by your grief.
But I couldn’t possibly ever hate you.
I hate that about me. Because, sometimes, I do feel that you know of that very fact and play my cards against me.
I couldn’t thank you enough for all the love and friendship I found in you. We never had a “happy ending”. Perhaps, that’s a hoax.
I don’t love you but I do remember you fondly. I’ll always remember you.
PS: I dreamt of you today. You rescued me from the fire but eventually you disappeared into the smoke and I never found you again. I hope you're okay.
