He was meant to be her catalyst, and her his.

The inconceivable rate of mistrust that had impeded their judgment rose to the occasion only until it was truly over. Afterwards, the regret seeped in and the silence pronounced them to be finished, though the muffled noise from outside his bedroom window said otherwise.

He stuck earphones in and asphyxiated the flow of consciousness the passing taxicabs and busses and cars evoked. There was nothing else to think about. It had been decided for them long ago.

Their last conversation, however, would not leave his mind, no matter how many times he turned up the volume on his music, or tightened the window clasp and drew the curtain. It had been one of certain anger, though he had displayed none at the time. All he ever did was convey hollowness when it came to her.

When he was with her, feelings were difficult. They were scary. They did not make sense. They were not simple. His chest was muddled and the world was blank, because he could no longer write it. This was the uncertainty that came along with a resistance to truth, but that was something he would not accept.

Predictability, however, that was something that required no resistance. He quite liked the nature of predictability. A self pronounced creature of habit, he followed what had become an internal mechanism in his day-to-day activities. There is nothing predictable about that which is not superficial, yet he felt himself drawn to exactly the opposite of that. He did not question why, it would defeat the whole purpose to do so. To question why he strayed away from the intricacy of life — well that would create a whole mess of things. Striving to predict emotion was no easy task and questioning anything would throw off his goal to live in safety completely.

Not to say that he was completely ignorant, no. He was open to progress, to change, but only the physical kind. The kind that was strictly related to the biological elements which link human kind to survival. Otherwise, the way he saw it, the world would be better off living the exact same way he did. It would make sense. It would not be scary. It would be simple.

He knew he had lost, but somehow, he could not bring himself to mourn. He would choose the alternative, and struggle to make it work, because simplicity was worth the difficulty. It was worth the waste of a perfectly good thing for the sake of conserving intricacy and preserving a manifestation that had pronounced him hopeless.

This was, and would always be, his biggest downfall. But he did not know it yet. How could he, as he lay in bed, admiring his own admiration for imperfection? Imperfection could be fixed through physical devices, but the sort of imperfection he had failed to see was his inability to wholly love, and that he could not fix outwardly.

He could see it in her eyes during their last interaction. He had been cold. Reserved. He could not speak truthfully. He did not know what the truth was because he could not embrace it.

He had turned to her. “It’s not fair to you.”

“How can you even say that, after everything and all these things that have happened. It’s obvious it’s not fair to me, that’s not in question. It’s about you not being fair to yourself.”

Outside his window, tires skidded on the pavement and he sat up in bed suddenly, holding his head in his hands.

He could not take her depth. He could not unthink the thought now that it had entered his mind, but still, he did not want to believe it.

And that was why he had ended it, a perfectly good thing as his grandfather always put it. He could not take the uncertainty that love brought along with it, the absolute heart wrenching undeniable feeling that you could never be sure about anything, because the feeling you felt existed and that meant questioning everything.

Finally, he had fully realized her. She had done so to him long ago, but it was since gone. He had pushed her to greater things, and now, try with all his might, he would need to catch up.

But to succumb to uncertainty is not easily done for those who thrive in a superficial reality. Good luck to those who try.