Sometimes I think about leaving. But not because I am tired of all these or because I am sick of this place and the life in this chaotic city. I don’t mind fighting, really. I don’t mind keeping up with the painful and monotonous routine of our rotten relationship. I don’t mind being bruised and beaten by the stupid way we fight. I guess I can keep up with that, still.
Sometimes I think about leaving. But I don’t mind staying at all. I don’t mind bearing each and every painful day I am unhappy with him here. I don’t mind pretending to feel otherwise. I don’t mind telling him what I really feel. He will never understand anyway. I don’t mind not going away. I have no place to go to either way. And leaving will only remind me of the pain of solitude, of being alone and forgotten. I sort of have adapted to this kind of life now. I am used to living a life determined and directed by other people, a life foreign and unfamiliar to my fragile heart. I don’t know who I am anymore.
But sometimes I think about leaving. I do whenever nights like these come about and I end up running from him as far away as possible because it breaks me to see him that way — his words, his voice, his stare, the weary look in his eyes all screaming regret for all the months he have spent with me, wasted with me, pathetic me. Perhaps, it has been my greatest mistake too that I have ever chosen to meet up with him along Magsaysay Boulevard that fateful December evening. I should have asked myself to stop when I felt that sudden urge to send him a text message because I thought I could use some company. I should have endured the pain of being all by myself. I should have waited and suffered the loss of something that was never mine than be with someone I never even wanted to be with. I should have known.
I remember hating him the first time I saw him. His fingers on the guitar, his concept of the Marxist-Marxian distinction I had absolutely no idea back then, his telltale eyes, his dreamy voice. I remember my searching eyes, landing upon every inch of him and not wanting any of it. I never wanted it. I have never wanted it all along.
People say we realize our mistakes only when it is too late. Time suddenly becomes a matter of urgency, of wanting to bring back what has been done and unlearn both the good and the bad, if only to erase every memory of what has happened. If anyone could only look into the future and see it through its end, then maybe no one would ever make the wrong decisions and feel an unconsiderable amount of regret later on. But life comes with none of those. We only see little through the looking glass of time and realize in the end that there is really nobody there with us but a shadow of what we thought have kept us company all this time But even shadows escape in the grim of the approaching darkness. We are all by ourselves.
Sometimes I think about leaving. The kind of leaving with no turning back, no undoing, no regret. But all I have is the idea. Maybe someday, sometime, the courage to act upon shall finally be fulfilled until we both realize the past and the present and see where we went wrong. The parting makes all the difference.
My apologies, in advance.