I’m sorry (among other things)

Hi, you.

You probably won’t ever see this, but I’m writing it down anyway. This comes with a disclaimer: I am doing this for myself and not for you; it’s to ease all the guilt and pain I have in me these past few months, intensified by the past few days.

When you messaged me last Christmas, I replied back, a simple “Merry Christmas, (your name).” That was it. To be honest, I procrastinated over it, and then proceeded to reply. I only replied for old times’ sake, and it was Christmas. It didn’t matter that I was feeling sad because it was my first Christmas away from my family or that I was feeling so lonely. That Christmas was just ‘okay,’ and it didn’t have the warmth of home. It was eerily quiet and strange; it was white noise. I didn’t ask how you were even if I missed your stories and I have a bajillion questions. Even if I missed you. And I didn’t unleash all the stories and feelings I had in me brought about by the holiday season and otherwise, when the usual would’ve been me sending one message after the other.

And I felt fine.

The next day, you messaged me again, checking how I was for my “first Christmas away.” This time, the minute I got that message, I knew I wasn’t going to reply. I don’t know what your intentions were for checking on me—maybe you’re being this good friend or maybe you were bored (haha, let’s face it: there was the probability it was the latter; it was a holiday, after all, and you probably remembered me then after a month of not talking to each other.)

But I was certain about one thing: you weren’t going to get a reply.

And I felt guilty.

The nice part of me, the part that is your friend, and that nasty part of me that still loves you, wanted to reply. Those parts of me feel guilty and rude for not even thinking twice about not sending a reply, for just reading the message and putting you in the seenzone.

The other part of me, the better part of me, the one that is starting over and is recovering, and the one who thought of self-preservation, figuratively curled up in one corner and threw the phone across the room where it shattered into pieces, just so I wouldn’t reply.

Truth: I didn’t want to reply because I didn’t want to reignite my hope.

And as long as I have that hope that there could be some sense of a future romantic relationship for us, I cannot be your friend.

I don’t want you to be a part of this ‘new’ life that I am building.

Not yet, anyway.

And I’m sorry for that. Continue reading

One Day, Maybe (Not)

Dear You (yes, YOU)—


Here we are again. Full circle. A cycle, not a phase.

Every time you come around, I keep on thinking: Dexter + Emma. One Day.

And I don’t mean that as a good thing, you know? Because even if [SPOILER ALERT] they ended up together, after the long, drawn out, twenty-year love affair, something happened that made me think that they’re not really meant for each other after all (if you’ve finished the book, or watched the movie, you’d know what I’m talking about).

We’re at Year Ten already. There hasto be a better way to do this, other than your popping into my life whenever you want to and my letting you do that every single time. I don’t want to make it to twenty years because I know I’m better than that. I know I’m better than letting you string me along. I deserve better than that. (Yes, I know I do, so why in the hell am I still staying? Right. Coz I’m stupid.)

I already told you, you already know my ‘rules.’ And while I know I couldn’t demand such a thing from you—since I’m not in a position to do so—I think it’s the least you can do. After all the years that have passed. After everything.

Was it because you find me, every single time? Did I not hide well enough? Is my three times a charm change in mobile number not enough to escape your detective skills?

Maybe I let it take over me. The pity. The hey, maybe he needs someone to talk to, considering (his situation). Or the curiosity. The hey, what does he want to tell me now (not that it bodes well for me, since the last time curiosity kicked in, the cat didn’t know it was a suicide mission for her heart). Or that sliver of hope. The hey, maybe you’re staying around for much longer, that you’re finally choosing ME.

[I don’t know if you can still include love here, because I don’t really know what I feel towards you anymore.]

But it’s wrong. ALL WRONG. It shouldn’t be this way. Because ten years is a long time. It’s a decade. The last time we were ‘together,’ the hit mobile phone was the Nokia 3210 and the top social networking site was still Friendster. Boybands like Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC ruled the airwaves, and my favorite color was still blue. You were into Green Day and crazy covers by New Found Glory while I try to hide the fact that I still liked Hello Kitty even when I’m past the elem years.

It’s a long time.

But we’re still at this standstill, that stupid fork in the road. But I still wait for you even if I could just go the other way and forget you. I still regress instead of pushing forward; you manage to take me back in time instead of pulling me towards a future.

Maybe it’s really time. Ten years was a long time; I’ve had enough memories from you to make a very juicy, not-so-good-an-ending (non)love story.

Maybe I know that I’m better than just being your last resort.

Maybe I don’t wanna be an Emma to your Dexter anymore, waiting for you to come around and man up.



Without anymore love left,