So this is what it’s like. It’s ridiculous to think that it was that easy to let things go. I was delusional.
Weeks have passed since that day. A lot has happened, yet I don’t seem to care as much. In fact, I hardly recall the details. Did any of it even matter?
Days went by and fragmented episodes of that day kept reappearing in my head. Sometimes it hurt, oftentimes it doesn’t. I thought it was because what I felt was mere curiosity. I held pride in having the ability to see through people, to read them easily––and I can’t read him. It bugged me for god knows how long. I thought I liked him then, and it was more than enough to rip my sanity off.
My mornings proceeded like how it normally did, same with the nights. I was getting numb again, and it bothered and calmed me at the same time. It made me think that perhaps, after all, there was nothing beyond that curiosity. Merely, he was a riddle I couldn’t solve. Merely, I was a child that couldn’t get over the missing puzzle piece. Merely, I was attracted to an unfamiliar toy; I was attracted to disasters I haven’t seen; to that rare instance of discovering something that hardly entered my peripheral.
I concluded that maybe, I mistook my obsession with unsolved mysteries for love. There was nothing beyond what you allowed on the surface. I was bored, and I simply needed a story I could tell someone someday, to put into reality the illusions I often created in my head, through you.
There was nothing in you and in me.
We are a blank, a void, a nothing.
I enjoyed the company of pain so much that a slight sting for every minuscule time you hurt me gets romanticized. I was in love with my idea of pain––pain from your supposed indifference, from the lack of requital, from reaching out to something that is impossible to hold onto.
You were merely a mystery, simply a means to an end. Yet you were happiness.
You became anxiety and dependence, yet you were happiness.
I went through everyday thinking I did just as fine as I figured I’d be, but then there you were again, standing sheepishly looking sideways, shyly asking to be played with again. But who wants to play with a useless, old toy? Who wants to re-solve a finished puzzle? Time allowed me to realize that I’m too old for these things, and as much as I want to play I’m not going to enjoy them the same way I used to. At least not anymore.
Was I mad? Was I indifferent? Did I hate you? Do I hate you? I don’t know. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to feel anything. But I was bored. And I was tired of being numb.
And you resurrected the pain. I recoiled, curled up, and basked in its warmth, as I replayed the agony I felt.