I’m sending him a box of a half-dozen donuts to say goodbye. I’m willing to play the kind lover who gives him perhaps what he wants after weeks of depriving his throat of sweets. I’m willing to play that role I will first time play during the entire duration of the two failed romances I had because I believe in my love for him.
It’s so fascinating, I reckon, to think how fast our love story with actual interaction lasted, for when I wasn’t able to approach him then, the one-sided romance lasted for over a year. Now, after I’ve mustered my courage to admit to him, things went surprisingly fast. Not over a month after my confession, I’m now thinking of bidding goodbye to these feelings. Maybe not for good, but for the better while.
But how did it go from ‘I won’t give up on him; not now that I see a glint of hope’ into ‘this is it; I need to end this because reality has slapped me and walked out from our conversation’?
This was how it happened.
It was 11th of March, 2016. It was in a party. Again. But this time, neither of us was drunk. Maybe I was on the verge of getting tipsy – you know, that level of alcohol to have bottled the butterflies inside. When I saw him alone, with his phone, in a corner, I came up to him – again, unsure of what to say. But then I went for the greeting I thought would start it right.
What was wrong with my Hi, by the way? I tried to make it natural, you know. That kind of greeting that I assume would make the both of us comfortable with what would happen next.
I actually saw him smile. Maybe out of reflex, or maybe…
No. I’m guessing out of reflex because when he saw it came from me, perhaps the last person he would wanted to receive a Hi from, he withdrew to his phone, which I found out he was playing a game at.
‘Di ka magsaot?’
He did a No, no gesture while kindly smiling, again I’m guessing out of courtesy, never wanting to spoil the moment, for my sake. Then I stayed there standing right next to where he sat, intently playing a game at his phone; while I was like a misplaced prop in a production design. Like that pole sticking up from the stage not because it was wanted there but because it needed to be there. You got me?
All the while, only the party music was filling the very awkward silences between the two of us. I didn’t know what to do, what to ask next. Hell. I’m dumbfounded, in the most hurt and awkward way, with how much I can carry on with the situation without breaking down and saying ‘I feel like you don’t want to talk to me!’ But I held on to that thick layer of confidence I had. Thanks to the alcohol and to the previous heartbreaks I had.
‘Wala na VIP tickets?’
He looked up at me from his phone, more accurately, looked right up to me from his phone because I was standing at his right side. I felt I was disturbing his solemn solitude in a corner and he doesn’t want me there. It wasn’t hard to figure out. I just had to stand there and endure his minimal responses to my queries.
‘Ano ang inclusive sang VIP?’
(non-verbatim) ‘Front row seat kag CD.’
I remember there had been enough time in between my next question, although I forgot if it was in between this one, that I was able to look at him from my point of view. I just loved looking at him even if him means his messy hair, just the blackness of them. Or his nape, his chubby nape I had dreamt of holding on to with my clasped hands while I lean forward to him and kiss him in a movie-like scene.
‘Ano ang CD?’
By the time I asked this one, I sounded a fool especially to myself to ask a series of questions I already know the answer. By heart, I assume, since I’ve been asking Kore members these questions, obsessing over the idea that I might have a CD that has his voice in it! His voice in it, where I can replay it a million times, praying the CD won’t over-scratch until time flies and I forget about him (if I ever can).
(non-verbatim) ‘Selected songs sa concert.’
I nodded. Accepting defeat. It was the second longest two-minutes of my life (firsts were when I do planking, those were terribly slow moments).
I can’t think of any question to ask that wouldn’t make me more anticipated or desperate to talk to him. All the while, he was playing this game in his phone while I slowly and silently fight my internal battle to death.
Then he moved. Quit his game, glanced over the dance floor. Once. Twice. Then he walked away. Just that. Walked. Away.
And as I looked at him through his black, plain top and jeans, I began seeing the reality approaching me, slapping me with the thought of smoke.
I don’t have to tell you it hurt like seven hells.
So now, I have to allot something for his box of donuts because I love him enough to at least say goodbye, the sweetest possible way I can.