a waste of words

SOMETIMES AT NIGHT, while waiting for that weight on my eyes that usually tells me that I need to sleep or cry, I try to deconstruct and make sense of the complicated emotions I feel. And in every attempt to find answers, I always end up disappointing myself, for the answers I come up with don’t satisfy me. I came to a conclusion that there is a flaw in the way I do it, resulting to my futile attempts—I tend to reason out using solely my intellect and forgetting to reason out with my heart. I also think I knew why this is so. I don’t trust my heart anymore.

She and I, after all that had happened between us, were able to keep our friendship. I think it is safe to assume that we’re friends right now. I am so grateful for it but it’s not as easy as I have expected. It’s quite hard actually. I wish for us to be friends but I am not sure if I could act like one or be one.

For the past few days, we were exchanging messages; casual talks, which in my part, I find painfully platonic. I woke up this morning, with a smile upon reading her message that simply said “Good morning, Ron”. My mind tells me it’s just the kind of message a friend would give to another but my heart forces me to find meaning beyond its simplicity. Whenever I send her a message I make sure that each is free from anything that could indicate that I am crossing the line. Reason tells me that it is just fair for her part. But my heart silently hopes that by some miracle, my true feelings, whatever they maybe would come across and kindle her heart. The ironic part is…it feels unfair. Not fair for her.

People should be friends first before becoming lovers. But sadly for most people, it’s the other way around, which is why when the relationship breaks, it’s almost impossible to keep the friendship. In my mind there is this intimidating and beautiful image of her. We never committed ourselves into a formal relationship but in the strangest way, it feels like I had broken up with someone. I am struggling to move on in a way that’s quite frightening. She has stolen my heart many years ago, and I refuse to get it back. I am lacking the courage to let go for she will always have that secret place in me, so familiar and comforting, that I’d want to let it linger for as long as I can.

It was one sunny afternoon. A day when all the paths we took together led to two more.

“Why give them back?” I asked. I made it sound so casual, carefully concealing the pain eager to break my voice.

“I have to.” She whispered with her head on a bow. “Because every time I see them and look at you, I see the person who wrote them. I want that someday, I would look at you and see a friend. Nothing more.”

“But why? Don’t you believe that what we had was real? They were real. My feelings for you were real.” I pleaded. In the back of my head I was praying that she would have a change of heart and decide to carry them back home with her.

“Returning these letters and books to you, doesn’t mean I don’t. Because I do.” She firmly said with conviction in her eyes. She handed them all to me, imagining it was her heart in my hands.

I couldn’t quit her. I need her or at least that version of her in my head or in my heart or wherever. It may sound weird, but the thought of her stirs me to the right path. And her memory encourages me to have faith in my heart and to find the right place to where it should be.

It was one sunny afternoon. A day when all the paths we took together led to two more. And we took them separately, wondering if there’s another crossroad ahead.

. . .

This entry was written barely a year ago and I never had the chance or should I say, I never had the heart to post this until now. A lot of things have changed in such measure of time, including the feelings used to forge these words. We saw each other before a crossroads once again, seeing for the first time how time changed us, puzzled faces reflected in each other’s eyes.