For a week, I didn’t even want to say anything. Your last message was clear, your silence even clearer. And I had my resolve. If you can disappear without a word, then far be it from me to break the silence. I said my part, and anything more would be redundant and pathetic.
But a week passed; the silence grew, and with it my resolve started to crumble. Like a speeded-up process of erosion, my mental guards rusted and I feared they will either be blown into a thousand tiny orange-brown pieces in the hurricane of my disappointment, or they will shed their rusted plates and showcase the marble of their once skin, turned to stone in their stubborn, pointless wait. This time, however, was different than before. While the urge to try and coax you into contacting me, talking to me, letting me know you were all right still raised its head, it was quickly trampled back into the mud of my sorrow by the realisation that all the effort would be, frankly, pointless, as your actions are beyond my control. No amount of asking, begging, explaining, demanding or bartering would do me any good, and anyway, I should know better by now. You respond to silence better than to the best written novel.
This time, you did not just disappear – you made sure I knew it. Offline, no indication of even reading my last words, no signs of life. First I thought it might be a day or two, then we would talk it through. Then I realised this time was different, it might take a week. But no. The ninth morning after I woke up to your explosion appearing in neat rows on my screen, and still, nothing.
Until, I saw you were online. Still, no indication you had seen my last message, but you were online. I breathed a little easier – you were alive – until my guards could no longer hold back the scratching noises of my ever simmering emotions in my mind from breaking through the mandatory silence I ordered almost ten days earlier. He is alive, he is online, but he is not communicating with me. Games. A show to tell me you’re there, but at the same time not there. More stupid games.
The day went by and I admit I checked several times – still online, still not seen, still not talking. I continued my day, with each check more stubborn and more hurtful than the previous one. It was when I went to start a shower that it all came crashing down on me. The scene that started it all, that stupid bath tub so white against the dark beige tiles. I was contemplating running a bath, but the memory of those bubbles and your reaction, the ensuing harsh words, quickly ensured that I would only shower. But as I opened the water and it flowed out in a strong steam, hitting the bottom of the tub with an incessant, resolute rhythm, my emotions threatened to flood my mind and drown me. So I allowed the emotions that I kept under strict lock-down for days to run amok while I lathered up my hair, applied my facial foam, and poured my favourite shower gel on the bath sponge. And they all came, with a gusto; the only rule I enforced is that they do so quietly. Anger tumbled out first, giving a piggy back ride to self doubt, and disappointment dragged its feet sullenly behind them. Self loathing paved the road and reality completed the entourage, having made sure that hope was locked up, unable to join them. They demanded answers, they wanted reassurance, but mostly, they wanted to be acknowledged. I went through my hair washing routine with the automatic motions engrained over years and years of practice, giving little thought to when I would swap from shampoo to conditioner, and how many pumps of each liquid I needed to form the lather.
If I was to recall what I did during the half an hour I spent standing under the shower, I would only be able to do so by reciting my routine forged through previous times. While my motions were on autopilot, my thoughts danced their ever more frequent danse macabre – I wanted to be the solution; now I am a problem; he doesn’t need any more problems; therefore, my role has been made redundant. I cannot give him what he wants; he cannot give me what I want; check-mate, no hard feelings, the end. Check-mate. Check-mate. No matter how many times we start the game anew, how we take different steps, hoping for another end game; the board is set, the players and the rules and the setting are the same; we always end up with an impasse.
Maybe it is time we admitted defeat.
Maybe it is time we admitted, it was not meant to be.
If the circumstances were different, if only we met sooner, if there was a different way forward.. but they aren’t; we didn’t; and there isn’t.
And I am tired. I am sad. I am disheartened. Surely, it could have been better than any story anyone could ever have written; we, us, we were going to be everything. Everything. And if we cannot be, I have strong doubts that I could I ever be a part of another ‘we’ who will be. Still… I can no longer hide from the facts of the matter. I can no longer pretend, no longer hope, no longer play the naive optimistic girl whose belief is so strong, it will break the status quo and bring a new dawn. The girl was never going to be able to do it, no matter how hard she tried or hoped – it was always a two person job. And you could never take part, as your ties bound you to another.
Looking back… it is so surreal to say that. Looking back. As if I already moved on. As if I already started to pave a new path. I haven’t. I’m still at the wall of our impossibility, slowly starting to accept that we reached a dead end. And looking back on the road we took to get here, I can only say, I have one regret. That I didn’t take a plane when it was still possible.
And see, there, that’s all it took, and I am crying. Crying over the what ifs, the never been, the never will be. I can only be so strong. I will never know the ferocity of your kiss, the demands in your fingers, the sparkle in your eyes. The sound of my name in the morning. Here I am, a puddle of mess, and I wish
No. That is the whole point. No more wishes.
You cannot be. And asking that you be the friend who consoles me as I struggle through losing you is not only counter productive and ridiculous, but also unfair.
And now… I only wish to tell you, there is a part of me that is yours. Whether you want it or not. It is yours. I didn’t know who I could be until you came along and let me blossom under your patient care. That patience has ran out. I understand.
Words, they are fleeting. Words can be faked. Words can take on a disguise. I thought I would just write down that it’s over, and it would be.