You know, in this exact same day a year ago, I convinced myself that I'll get over him. I was struggling to see how that would happen; moving on from someone has never been an easy task.
Funny, 'cause I did get over him. It didn't happen magically one day where all feelings disappeared. It happened slowly. Ever so slowly that I barely felt the shift in me.
But just a little over three months ago, I found myself opening up to a new guy. He was everything I couldn't have imagined to have met in my lifetime. There were moments where I felt delusional with how everything seemed impossible. Something as good as him can't be real. I don't know if I'm saying this with rose-coloured glasses, and I might be, but damn do I not care.
I like him.
At the back of my mind, I know this is going to hurt at some point. There are random times where I get suspicious when everything just goes smoothly. Like it's a trap that nothing is going wrong. I know my shit luck; fucking up happens to me on a daily.
Now, the scariest part is this: the longer my good luck is, the shittier my fuck-ups are when karma catches up on me. I'd rather fuck up now, or next week than have it next month. Cause a fuck up today could mean as small as not talking to him in a day.
A fuck up next month could mean a major ass argument with him. A fuck up the month after that could mean us breaking up after a nasty yelling session. It just gets worse.
So everyday I just wait for a fuck-up to happen. But nothing. I thought maybe this is why people sometimes think healthy relationships are boring. It doesn't give you that same extreme highs and lows that you're used to. It's safe and secure and steady.
It's a breath of fresh air.
But you know, as I said, I tend to fuck up. And as much as I tried to be vigilant, karma caught up on me on the day when I started trying to accept the safe and secure and steady and comfortable.
Three months of good luck, and karma hit me like a bitch, stopping everything full-stop.
I knew it would hurt. But I expected a full-blown argument. A yelling session. A boxing match. Just something.
But the thing is, nothing happened. He just left. No words, no trace of him left. At first, I thought that would be impossible. We were doing great. We were fine. I knew he loved me as much as I loved him. I felt it.
But one day, he was just gone without an explanation. Days stretched to weeks and he hasn't returned. I couldn't understand it. Couldn't wrap my head around it.
I tried to convince myself he will be back. But he never did. And I think that's what's more painful. If we had broken up, I would've understood why we're not in communication anymore. I would've been fine if I found out he cheated on me and I got angry and ended it.
Everything else is better than this.
Because he just... disappeared. And it frustrates me. Because I can't find a trace of him that used to exist. I know he existed when he touched my soul. But now, why do I feel like I was just delusional all this time? That I made him all up in my head? That he was never real?
He was the realest person I've ever encountered. He can't just disappear out of nowhere, right? Part of my mind tries to soothe myself that he'll be back. That all I have to do is trust that he will.
Time passes by, and I'm still waiting. I try to focus on other things. I try to be a better version of myself. So that when he comes back, I can be better in the relationship.
To be honest, part of the reason I'm keeping myself busy is to avoid having to think too much about it. But there are random days when I'm alone and I just stare into space and cry. The worst days are when I try to be busy at work, but tears just randomly fall down without reason. It doesn't matter what I do; working on spreadsheets, or watching funny videos on YouTube, or starting a new hobby. A tear always escapes before I realize it.
And once it does, it's easily followed by another. And another. And another.
This has been going on for days. At a random. Even when my mind tries to ignore it, my body mourns for me.
If he isn't real, then at least I'm sure the pain is fucking real.
So I went back to writing. Which is already bad in itself. I only ever write when I'm in pain. Because that's the only time when I know extreme emotions. I've always believed that the best art is done by the most broken. Something has to keep the artist sane. Funny how it's presented as entertainment to art enthusiasts.
Anyway, as I tried to write yet another prose about what I feel, I found out that the last time I wrote was just a year ago. Same day. Same month. A year ago.
And it's fucking funny, it's driving me insane. Just a year ago, I'm convincing myself that I can move on from an ex. Now, I'm convincing myself to do the same thing again.
It gets fucking tiring. I don't want to love anymore. I'm scared to be writing again.
Because when I do, I know my karma's due.