The End came to us years ago. I had no doubt about it.
We said goodbye. I cried. I tried killing myself because the guilt consumed me and everything was more than what I could handle. The rusty Blumentritt-bound train tracks and howling stray dogs were witnesses to that fateful day. But unfaithful me was over everything soon. Being the competitive little witch I was, I wasn't one to be left behind. Because I was sure you'd recover faster than how I could decide between splurging on books or hipster frapuccino.
Soy chai latte was always better, anyway.
I was confident that you would gracefully take the role of the one that got away. But with what I saw last night... I am not sure if you ever got the memo.
A good two years have passed since we broke up. Since you called it quits, because I couldn't. I was a confused coward and you were a sensible drunk, armed with your equally smart-ass friends, who finally figured out he'll be stuck at the losing end if he stayed with me. Two years have passed since I made that sad journey home from yours contemplating whether or not silence was my best option. I have wondered month after month after if I should at least ring you up but you always seemed like you don't want to deal with me anymore. Even if you did promise a movie date every month after the break-up. You know. That sad last minute request to stay as friends. Yeah, that one.
Days before the end of this year, you somehow ended up pulling strings for me to show up at a cheesy acoustic bistro when I didn't even want to go. Our mutual high school friends were relentless with their messages as well, too persistent that is, that I had to give in and show up. Even with my hair like a mess. Make-up's a disaster. And I, barely human enough to face you and the gang.
After that long, unwanted commute home, I threw my bag over our house's fence then dashed my way to the bistro. I had to be quick because going out way past midnight is the worst decision anyone can make in my neighborhood. And because I would probably change my mind again. Less than half an hour was enough to traverse the dark alleys leading up to the all too familiar boulevard. I waited at the nearest pizza place and you came to get me with a lit cigarette at hand. Didn't even recognize you at first. No kidding. I wasn't simply squinting my eyes, leaning closer towards your face, just to look silly. Guess I kind of got used to only seeing you in my guilt tripping daydreams that I couldn't believe you actually still exists. I huffed some smoke in without realizing it, and upon realizing it, cursed, and remembered you started this goddamn awful smoking habit late in your college years. Helps with the insomnia, you said and that everyone at the office were doing it. I guess you forgot that I had crappy lungs.
I got a hug. I think I did. I can't remember if I actually got one.
We walked side by side like the old times. At a reasonable distance, that is, like indifferent strangers. As if there was a wall of shame and regret between us. But you quickly got comfortable for some reason. You violated my space by going for a pinch digging in somewhere where my natural waistline was. You laughed upon learning I still had the flabs you once adored.
Nica and Tin were at the stairs, waiting.
I did the customary hi, hello, how are you. You all gained weight. I also got fluffier. It was a trend. After hearing some familiar jokes about my prominent chin and a new one about my stronger konyo vibes, I made my way to a seat. A cold, unsettling feeling started to overwhelm my veins as time passed. And no, thank you. I won't let alcohol ruin my poise and grace that night.
Too comfortable, you started the dreaded catch up interrogation -- As a matter of fact, yes, Michael and I are still okay. No, I didn't really need to know that about your girlfriend, but thanks for sharing. Your girlfriend and our mutual friend's girlfriend are in the same company as our other mutual friend (wow, Alice, such sense)? Cute. No, thank you. You do know I don't eat street food, right? Yes, I drink, but maybe not tonight. Shut up, Brandon and the rest of the gang. No one's getting 5 sickening seconds of your peer-pressured kiss. Not us. That will not prove anything and will only complicate things.
I stood up a couple of times. Sitting next to you was punishment in itself. Having to hear you throw jokes about how I was the who needed a slap 'cause I was the idiot, honey, was too much. You were still a klutz. The rim of the bucket of beer grazed my parietal.
You apologized and I got a light kiss on the head. I think I did. I can't remember if I actually got one.
Wait, who's playing on stage? The mermaid green-haired vox was amazing but I don't even know her name. No, I don't know the song either. Yeah, I don't like popular local music. Like you don't even know that already.
Things started to get a bit more of a challenge for me to feign a calm and composed presence as you (maybe it was the beer talking) whispered, "You know what," you paused, probably thinking whether sharing was the right move, "this is a secret, okay? I really want to mess around with Lisa."
You made sure I heard you well, as if it meant something to me.
Great, here you go again. Lusting (yes, lusting, you little w****) over the people that matter the most to me when you and I don't work out for you. For the record, I know what you tried to pull on my Ellie eight years ago. She willingly told me because she was a real friend. And there I was, for eight years thinking, the only person my jealousy had to seriously deal with was Dairy Queen-obsessed Ms. Ateneo. When in reality, there probably were more than I could imagine.
But what the heck, right? It's your life. Screw all you want.
I gave you a friendly warning and shrugged your indifferently cocky response off. Can't believe I stayed long enough to hear your befuddled crap.
What's worse was you kept on pressing, kept on asking. "We're okay now, right?" in your low, but surprisingly loud drunken voice. Did you really have to raise your voice? You forced me into an awkward handshake to let everybody see we were officially over what happened in the past. I was scared of making a scene so I obliged. Again, you forced another just a few remarks about how you've been dying to get lucky with one of my best girl friends and how you felt guilty about being the probable reason why I took myself out of my high school friends' lives for a solid few years. I gave in and gave my hand out. But you asked for another one, and another after another one.
I wanted to slap you out the frustrating loop.
Good thing I had Pretty Taylor singing in my mind's left ear about the life I had since you were gone. Yes, I got to move along quite nicely, actually, even with all the crazy of 2018. Thanks for asking.
Photo by: Toa Heftiba
The night could've been less tense and dicey.
But Honey, you were drunk. You were heart-deep intoxicated way before I got in the bistro. And the fact that you barely remembered what we talked about that night, I can assure you that it wasn't just the booze that got you tanked. You were still mad, furious. It's okay. I understood. My presence was never a something to be happy about for most people.
Good thing the band's set was over and it was closing time soon. Amen.
I only had to wait for the girls to get a ride before I went on my own way, on foot, back home. No, you don't have to worry about me. Why would you even? I didn't need the lift.
Before I took my first unnerving step home, you flashed your phone at quite an uncomfortable distance to my face. Thanks for coming anyway, was typed on your phone's notepad. Thank you for what? For trying not to dig up the past, because drunk you wanted to do it himself? Okay.
And so, it was me, my shadow, and the occasional potential rapist passerby that made their way back home.
I got back in one piece. I think. I couldn't remember. I think something in me got lost along the way.
Amy, in her vocal prowess, screams about how you never called me when you're sober.
The long walk gave me time to ponder over what just happened that night. Stupid me. I went through all the trouble of losing you only to end up getting towed back into the drama with just one drunk message.
Truth is, I couldn't be any happier to see you again. I was more happy to see how my girl friends were. Are they still my friends? They looked like it but I don't know. I'm not sure anymore. But more than these I am disappointed, angry. Guilt tripping wasn't the smartest thing to do but I couldn't help myself from getting on board and going over all the disappointments I put you through.
I called Ellie and Grace for some wisdom. Grace hates your guts. Her novel of a message boiled down to two words, Fuck you. Ellie, the most indifferent person I know, assured me it wasn't my fault. "Honey, they're grown ups. Let them be grown ups."
Yes, I did you wrong before. I feel like that was the catalyst of all the mess you're obviously intentionally getting yourself into. Sure, I don't know the whole story. But with what you told me and the fact you were still in a relationship made me look at you with disgust and pity. If love and security was what you wanted, have the balls to stay faithful even if you didn't get that from me. You, of all people knew how it felt to be betrayed. Why would you want that to happen to your current lover? Please, not Lisa. She's vulnerable and you know it. We all know it. I don't want to see her be caught up in your mess just because you are probably trying to prove a point or assert yourself. Your freedom. Your intelligence. Being smart and successful doesn't exempt you from having a moral compass. They're your friends. You took them from me. At least take care of them, too, as how I cherished them. I could go on and on with this rant, you know.
I sent you a long message, reminding you that you don't have to be the monster you thought you were.
Ellie and Grace were right. They always were. But I couldn't shake my care off because I feel sorry for you then your current girl then Lisa then myself then -- it's you again.
The cycle of regret and guilt continued for a good couple of weeks and even made its way through the new year. Days have passed, and I have made peace with myself. I don't know. I think I did. One thing's for sure, though. I secretly wish you never met me. I shouldn't have come to see you that Thursday eve. My mistake.
Just like with everything else that I put you through, I'm sorry, James. Really, I am. But please allow 2019 heal you.
wishing you nothing but happiness,
Alice
@writercaht #openlettersbycaht
01.17.19