It was just today when everything you and I had shared came back to me. All it took was one play of Spongecola’s Gemini and Neon, and I knew it. I just had to smile. I remember telling you that in the lyrics of Gemini, the word “gemini” was actually mentioned, and you had to go online just to find out about it. And Neon, oh. You had me de-lyric the song just so we could understand what it meant. You even played an April Fools’ Day joke on me saying that “Neon” was actually mentioned in the song, but it wasn’t, and we both know that.
I remember calling you Popo and you calling me DQ just coz you say I’m the biggest Drama Queen you’ve met all your life. But hey, you said without all my drama, I wouldn’t BE me, and you wouldn’t have solved all the drama in your life if I wasn’t too experienced in drama. I called you Popo because of Dragonball-Z’s Master Popo, that guy so dark and so round. You were dark, but you were never round (okay, maybe now, five full years after).
I remember how we used to watch Bubble Gang together even if we’re an hour apart. You’d call me up, and we’d laugh at the jokes there. I remembered how I wouldn’t laugh at the corniest of jokes but it would crack you up. I remembered all our sensible and senseless conversations, all our fights, all our misunderstandings.
But what I remember most was the feeling of how being in love with you was. It wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t THAT great either. You won’t talk to me in public, won’t want to be seen with me. Before that huge turning point that happened between us (or I guess among us THREE), I had never known that falling in love would feel that BAD, you know? But it did.
And it was actually after that turning point that I actually understood the saying “Pain can melt away no matter how great the love is.” Because it can. Pain can make you forget who you are and who your friends are. Pain can make you forget just how it feels and how to feel. It can melt away every single shred of love left in your body, snuffing you out of every single emotion that you even allowed to feel. Pain makes you numb, makes you into this other person you are not sure if you want yourself to become.
And I’ve been there.
And I am not so sure that if I can survive just one more bout with that great kind of pain, so I stopped to love and care for people who come close to who you are to me.
Seeing you again, last year, after that many years, I’ve actually doubted if I was already strong enough to see you. If I won’t break down and cry, ask you WHY (along with many other things), and if you really did love me.
And then I saw you. And her. Back when you two were still lovey-doveys.
And it wasn’t that bad. It was a bit painful, but not crawl-to-my-bed-hugging-my-pillow-crying type of pain. And then you just smiled, went away.
That was it.
After that, yeah, maybe we’d have chats. Hi, hello, how are you.
And then silence.
And then out of the blue, one of us will say: hey, I actually miss you.
And then that’s it.
And then there was one moment when she asked me if I still love you.
And because she was my friend (hey, she still IS, but not that close a friend anymore), I told her I still do. But not the kind of love where I’d still move heaven and hell for you, but the kind of love that is there because I loved you once and you remain up to this day the only person that I loved so greatly. The kind of love that you still have for someone whom you cared about so much before and the kind of love that is imprinted in your heart. The kind of love that still stings every once in a while when you still see him. That kind of love.
And then a year later, we see each other again. Still so casual, like you never hurt me and like I never had to say sorry for feeling like you hurt me (which was kind of pathetic of me, don’t you think?). But there’s this… something. I know it just wasn’t me assuming, but you still care. And I see it. You stayed around, hung around just because you felt I’d be the outcast again. And when I was leaving, there was this awkward moment. After I had hugged practically everyone, I just wouldn’t hug you. It… won’t feel right. I won’t feel right. And you were there, hands open to receive me, and I just managed a wave and bleak “goodbye.”
And then six months after, the scenario stayed the same. I hugged everyone and gave besos, excluding you (and maybe that other person whom I still haven’t forgiven).
You’d always be that person, Popo, that I’d always love but the one who’d hurt me so much. You aren’t even the one that got away, because I had you, just not in the way that I had wanted.
I don’t know how long it will take for me to get over the hump of hugging you when I see you and when saying goodbye to you. Maybe the next time I’d see you again? This December, perhaps.
But I’d always remember that–how good and horrible it was at the same time to love you. How much I gave up for you and you weren’t even aware enough to see it.
But I won’t it take it back. Loving you was probably a good thing too, because I learned a lot. And I was happy, even for just a small period of time, and that was what is important.
And those little moments we’ve shared? It still counts for something, at least to me.
So I’d be here, my heart smiling every time I’d hear Neon or Gemini or some random Usher song.
Because even if I hurt so much, you’ve made me happy.
And I still have you to thank for that.