THE END?
August 16, 2018
It's 3AM and a bit lonely. Like how most sleepless nights have been for the past few weeks. Normally, this incredibly painful combination of solitary and agony would allow me to author the most personal and most heartfelt statements about grief and sorrow and longing and love. But tonight was entirely different.
Odd. I can not write about us.
Not that our story was meaningless. Nor did I forget about how it all began. It was utterly impossible not to recall that very night. I remember the first time you held my hand; how my sweaty, nervous palms perfectly clasped with yours, and how, for that very moment, everything became suddenly motionless. The only thing that mattered was you. I still remember the look in your eyes. That pair that speaks volumes right through you was my absolute favorite. It was difficult not to fall in love with that. Your smile that hooked my heart and soul had kept me going. I know all is well in the world because I have you.
I remember how I have always looked forward to running into your arms by the end of every week, only to tell you about the little, petty, scary, funny details of my everyday. It was frustrating how much we miss each other as soon as we part ways. I was only either with you or waiting to be with you again. Time together, no matter how short and quick, consoled my troubled heart and made me forget of what was before you and me. Coming home to you have always felt like the world is ours, and ours alone.
But I also remember clearly how it fell apart. I remember the exact day we stopped talking, and how, on the succeeding days, I silently pleaded all the stars and gods there are to hear your voice for one last time. I saw all of it crashed right in front of me. It was terrifying. Painful. Heartbreaking. Without fair warning, you were gone. I lost you, without knowing completely how and why, just like that.
It feels like only yesterday when this emotional roller coaster that is pure bliss and sudden bitter downfall happened. See, it is impossible to not find the right words to write an ode to a man I have loved and lost. It could go a long stretch, to be honest. But with this deafening silence, with this lonesome, with this heavy heart, and with this hopeless desire, I choose to not seek the words that fit. Just not yet.
I can write endings. But clearly, I still could not start phrasing ours. I want the perfect words to flow from a grateful and humbled and learned heart, and not from a heart that is still aching and breaking and hurting. I want our ending written painfully beautiful, one that is still grounded in love. In gratitude. In hope.
I can not write about us. Just not yet. For until now, for what it's worth, I still end our story with baka pwede pa.
I just need a little more time to have the courage to catch the words floating in mid-air. Let me first gather my excess feelings I left all over the place. Maybe just a few more weeks— a few more days— to heal myself and finally accept the truth that this could have been a story that deserves to have a better ending; but now it is a story probably best to end this way. That the next time I would sit down and pen the mere possible joyful endings, all of those are just entries to what could have been and what we would never be.
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