I’ve never been good at telling the truth. But then, in all of our time together, I’ve never had the courage to call myself a liar. Not that I do not want to label myself with such names. It’s just that I have always thought of it as forgettable, unnecessary; that there are some things that a woman can never tell his man because sometimes, words are not enough to give air to one’s own sentiments or perhaps the other person might never understand.
Lies. They are not really, in essence, lies. Just unspoken truth, Like when you ask me if I am alright and I would answer you that I am fine even though my head is spinning in constant turmoil from some past conversations we left unresolved or when we say things we do not mean when we could say otherwise just to pacify the turbulence in our hopeless hearts. We? Or was it I alone? Forgive me if I can not distinguish the differences between pronouns anymore such that the word I becomes synonymous to we even if and by all means, the word we does not corresponds to the two of us.
I know it is unfair that I always point the finger at you or hold you as the one to blame whenever discrepancies arise between us when I know that such discrepancies are my own making and that, at the bottom of every argument, I am really the one who is wrong.
I know it is unfair that you suffer too deeply at the cost of my mistakes and that you end up becoming a trash bin for all of my fears and frustrations. It pains me just as it pains you to think that we met in a moment of crisis: a time when everything inside of me is slowly wasting away, when I am hanging by a thread with no ounce of hope left for tomorrow.
I never really wished for someone to be with back then. I never wished for anyone at all. I was used to being on my own. But then, once upon a December evening—and this almost sounds like a fairy tale now—our paths crossed in a seemingly magical way and transformed my reality into a world of make-believe. I know you don’t believe in fairy tales, let alone the idea of romantic love which now finds its vogue embodiment in the persona of romantic authors. I see how you’ve deliberately murdered the idea of passive love and how in the processing of doing so, have murdered the little girl in me: that little girl who believed in love and happy endings. But our death only paved the way for an afterlife and this I now clearly recognize as a process of creation.
I know there are no fairy tales waiting for us out there. We are the ones to create our own masterpieces. At bottom, even if the foolishness of all those fairy tales did exist or did not, I shall still hold on to one thing: that I am grateful that we met under the blanket skies of that fateful December evening.
Meeting you is both a blessing and a curse. A rare memory I wish I could do and undo at my command. There are certain times when I couldn’t help but think if things would have been better, or if it would have been worse, had I met you a little earlier or a little later in life. But then I realize, it would never be the same.