If you take this blog out of the context, it might seem like that I left for Mecca and never made it back home. I could have been missing in the Indian Ocean or kidnapped by terrorists. Thankfully nonathat happened. Home I was, safe and sound. (Along with more stuff that I had when I left.) The flight took about twelve hours from here to there and vice versa, and, coming from someone who takes airplanes as his means of transport only every once in a blue moon, flying was nice. It was soothing—almost meditative—to see the fluffy white clouds from fifteen-thousand feet (or something) above the open seas. It was interesting that from such a height the skies weren’t, well, “sky blue” in color; they were in fact blue of a darker shade, probably “midnight blue”. Seriously, from up there, the midnight blue skies look terrifying. A few more thousand feet up and the skies would’ve been pitch black, like in the movie Gravity, and there would no longer be “skies”. There would only be void. What could be more frightening than being surrounded by complete emptiness?
It might not be as frightening as being enclosed in void, but breakups are scary. Breakups? What?! Well, a few months after my home touchdown, my girlfriend kind of dumped me. Yeah, the same girl toward whom I openly express my deep admiration. Breaking up was something I always feared and even though I knew it would eventually happen, I kept brushing it off, pretending like it never ever would. It was supposed to be a mutual breakup. “Supposed to be” because when she told me, “It’s not working out for me,” she kind of gave me time to sort of approve of it so it did seem like it was mutual, although I never actually wanted it. It was funny, really. I was just delaying the inevitable. Like someone being given a death sentence and the executioner is like, “Yeah, I’ll give you a couple of days to think about it. You can say no, of course. But I’m still going to chop your head off anyway. But I’ll give you a couple of days…” And indeed eventually, just short of its second year, the relationship was over.
But it wasn’t over just like that. She and I were still hanging out for the following months. She and I had lunches together, went to the movies in the afternoons. Just the two of us. Not only that, the backseat of my scooter still “belonged” to her as I kept picking her up at her place to give her a ride. I kept accompanying her to places she wanted to go. It would’ve looked like as if were dating. But, no, we weren’t. Not anymore.
From her perspective, hanging out with me was like hanging out with a close friend. From my perspective, hanging out with her was hopelessly hoping that her heart would rekindle that old flame that used to burn with seemingly endless passion.
Alas, there was no flame. There was not even a hint of a spark. Soon after, the post-breakup hang outs stopped and neither she nor I made attempt to contact each other. Then, like most people who initiated a breakup, she moved on. She even had gotten herself a new crush, someone she routinely meets in her Sunday services. How the hell did I know about that, you ask? Well, I kind of stalked her Facebook the other day (definitely not something I was proud of doing) and found out that she had put up a blog in which she wrote poems of admiration to that guy. You know, the usual stuff: a girl has a crush on a boy but she doesn’t know whether or not the boy shares the feeling. (Funnily enough she used to do the same to me. I even still remember the address. I guess it’s just something that she does when she has a feeling towards someone.) She has a job now as well, out of town. I’m probably completely out of her mind by now.
What about me? Well, to be completely honest I haven’t gotten over her, not yet. The pain isn’t as bad as it used to be, but it’s still there, healing. I’m still secretly hoping (not so secret at this point) that out of the blue she would text me and then I would reply and then a lovey-dovey conversation that lasts until the night that she and I used to do when we were together would happen again. It’s an immature thought, really. But hey, here’s a guy who’s still picking up the remains of his broken heart and glueing them back together.
I should probably get a job.