The Last Time I’ll Ever Write This, About Us
My heart isn’t broken, but I must admit that it stings. The pain of a once-savored, now-lost passion is like the searing pain of scraped knees.
My heart isn’t broken, but I must admit that it stings. The pain of a once-savored, now-lost passion is like the searing pain of scraped knees.
But was it truly lost? A friend of mine said before, “Waves don’t disappear; you just find them somewhere else.”
He made sense; there were always waves on the other side of the country, or the world. You just got to find them.
Lately I’d been lost in contemplation. I’d been thinking about why I was feeling certain things. Why I was no longer feeling certain things.
I thought it was just the weather — it rained straight for about two weeks — and I was just feeling too much the transition between summer and rainy season. I didn’t realize it then but the weather was in fact a metaphor of what I was going through.
Summer has ended, pretty days are over. The bleakness of the gray weather is just about the same as the blandness of my deteriorating relationship.
It was a summer affair, or an affair with summer; all about heat, excitement, fun, and play. All that we were, really, were playmates. We dreamed, we had plans, we attempted to lay out a future that was so intricately imagined. And just like sandcastles built on a sunshiny day, they were toppled by breaking waves and gnarly winds.
When long distance and scarce time pulled us apart, when there was no more play, and when no more interesting stories were being told — I retreated; he craved my attention like he owned it.
I might have simply gone tired. Maybe, time for me to stay at home just struck.
The first nights of heavy rain have started to pour. Messages complaining that I “didn’t have time” and that I “felt so far away” are being sent. I try to be cheery in my greetings, and all I get are signs of neediness.
After making my personal life my priority, I was covertly accused of not giving enough, not doing enough.
But what have you done? Just wait on me, for me to come over, for you to fuck as you wish, for you to consume, for you to absorb, for you to share a bit of play with “out of adoration, love, and respect?”
On those times when I called and could not hear the eagerness in our voices, when there were long pauses, when it felt like we both had nothing to say — there wasn’t much incentive on calling again. He never did call or replied to my texts anyway — his phone was “broken” for two months.
I became obsessed with reading and became a binge reader. I’m a sapiosexual, by the way.
I could still appreciate those times when he cared for me and helped me out. That one time I was drunk, crying, and vomiting — he held me to his chest. We shared nights too cold and he kept me warm. We would laugh like children and tell each other stories while holding hands. We thought we were the best, that we could conquer the world, that we could pierce each other’s hearts and make a home out of each other and never become homeless again.
Now it’s all gone. The rain has washed down the bliss, the spark has faded, and misdeeds have voided the value of all precious gesture.
It was a pretty, pretty summer — we found a blissful, seemingly perfect love that died at the end of the season.
Now my happiness is somewhere else. I’m yet to find it but I know it exists somewhere else. I haven’t lost it in losing you — our love — it’s got to be somewhere else, like ocean waves.
This post was originally published in Bleak and Pretty by Mia Alcantara.
