Aftermath
In which we can barely talk to each other, in which we struggle despite the best of intentions. When it hurts so bad, I finally understand what it means to bleed, to be slashed and torn asunder, slowly sure.
Why do we both feel so betrayed, so disappointed? We should have done better, we tell ourselves, we should have been able to handle this better. Shouldn’t we?
I’m trying to close up my heart but it hasn’t been working. When one loves this hard, this fast, this furiously, one’s heart opens up too many sizes too much. I wonder to myself, How could I have put so much of my happiness in the hands of another person?
Does it matter if I have tried my hardest, if it wasn’t good enough? Does it matter at all if you don’t see me sitting alone, surrounded by strangers who don’t care, trying my best not to bawl my eyes out? Does it matter at all?
Afterwords
And in the midst of this maelstrom, I reach out blindly, hoping to find some succour. And it’s a vain attempt, I think, nothing would change, nothing can be made better. That night, I had dinner with a friend, an angel, really, and she helped me see that I have to go on, that I will survive, that nothing is insurmountable.
The next morning, her words were followed by more… All day, emails and calls and text messages came in from my friends, my readers, chance acquaintances, people I would not have expected to hear from. Hundreds of them. All prayers of love and support and simple kindness. Some of these letters were so personal in the stories shared, I wept openly staring at my notebook’s screen.
Some were full of love and care [“If you ever need a shoulder to cry on (on top of all the shoulders I know you will have) – there’s an extra one here.”]; others made me laugh out loud just when I needed it [“If you need to talk or if you want me to ‘punch’ the person who hurt you, I am here.”].
But these hit me the hardest — [“You were there for me when I needed someone to talk to. You were there to always care.”] and [“Hey there, sending you love and light. Remember… this too shall pass.”] — because they showed me that it isn’t always about me and my suffering. That others have suffered too, suffered greater losses, and survived to bring more joy to this world.
And that’s what I will do, I told myself, that’s what I will do.
Aftertaste
Whenever I eat out at our favourite kopitiam and the hawker man brings me my change, I rearrange my notes in the right order — ascending, with the face turned upwards. I do this now, unconsciously, automatically, cos you’re not around to do it for me anymore. I used to find it so annoying, but now… now I just miss it.
Or the way I could never hear the beats in a song, as you try time and time again to teach me to catch them… the da-da-dums of the song, of our song, as you sing to me, and you still sing to me… as a friend.
I can’t say I love you anymore.
So this is what I do instead: I tell you about the others whom I meet and date and take out for coffee and movies. You laugh, you tease, you are desperately curious, but —
You are not moved.
We’ve agreed we’d be friends, so this is what we do.
And so we continue this dance, with a new tune, but I recognise the rhythm this time. It’s the same. You said you’d never be able to teach me the beats, but oh boy, you finally did.
Afterburn
But working at being friends isn’t enough, not when there isn’t some closure. I want some answers, some idea of how you are feeling. Were you always this closed up to me, and I thought I was an open book? Or was it the reverse? Weren’t you simply truthful, and I had to deny what I could not endure? (And now I must endure this.)
Sitting in yet another kopitiam (a cold one, this time, one that is enclosed in a shopping complex, ridiculous but good because it’s something that doesn’t remind me of us), I sit with the Lady as she tries to cheer me up. Instead, it shakes me up, this fury, this unbearable sadness, and she watches in silence, helpless, as my tears escape me in public, except there is no public, no private, no nothing, because you’re not here with me.
She can offer me nothing, though she wishes she could help me more than anything else, but a plea for me to call you. Not as a friend, but just to talk. To let you know the pain I’ve been through.
And finally, I do. I cross the lines. You weren’t expecting such a call. More charades would be preferred but I have no energy for that anymore. I fume and I foam and I open myself up all over again. And it hurts us both, badly. What were we expecting? We weren’t ready yet; perhaps we never will be.
The call ends, another disaster.
After: Rise…
The next morning, comes acceptance. There isn’t much fight left in either of us. We’ve lost track of who’s hurt whom more, and really, no one was keeping score. Perhaps we were meant to be forever, and this is a tragedy. Perhaps love can’t sustain itself, can’t last, can’t go on.
In the end, it’s not about trying your best. Some things are meant to be, and some things are meant to be… different.
I wrote 27 love songs for you once. I read it again, recently, and nothing has changed. Not the important bits. I will always love you. But we are friends now, and that’s how it is. We are both moving on with our lives — new loves, new projects, new dreams — but we are still together, as friends. We’ve both grown up, just a little.
Our laughter is honest again, our delight and our mischief terrible and joyful. You were always such a gossip, and I not, except now I ply you with juicy tidbits I’ve gathered carelessly. We have the same faults as before, but the nitpicking is harmless now. You still sing to me, but my heart doesn’t break anymore. We were never saints, but now, we know we aren’t demons either. We’re only human, and we’ve learned to cope. We’ve made the best of it.
And I cannot imagine a greater blessing than, after all we been through, we can still rise above this and ourselves, and be better persons than we were before.