It doesn't matter how you count it...

11 months if you start counting from when we first met. 9 months if you starting count from when we officially got together. As I do this stalker activity of reminiscing “our friendship” on facebook, I’m surprised to see that we don’t have that many pictures together of just the two of us… this makes me kinda sad. Sadder than I already felt a few minutes ago… and I thought it would be difficult to feel worse than what I felt earlier.

Apparently I was wrong…

I wish we travelled together more. We did it twice. Once to Bohol in June and another time to Hong Kong in October. I wish we could have gone to Thailand together – Cambodia, Phuket, Boracay, Los Angeles, London and Paris, KL even… Maybe we would have had more pictures together if we took more trips. I wish we did more “stuff” together. I wish we watched more movies together. I wish we walked the Henderson Bridge together. I wish we sang karaoke together; we always said we would but never got around to it. I wish we ate more desserts together. I wish we caught a concert or two (Regine maybe) or a live show. I wish we saw The Lion King together. I wish I could have been there when he got out of his first neck surgery. Lots of wishing and hoping and dreaming.  I wish I was stronger, so I could have stayed longer, so we could have fixed it.

 I’m a weak pussy of a man. Sorry. Truly, I am.    

Saying goodbye is never easy. But one’s gotta do what one’s gotta do. I pray to god I did the right thing. Still, I can’t help but doubt myself. Like the quintessential hopeless Romeo of a romantic that I am, I toy with the idea of running back. Running to him in a stupid meadow of stupid flowers, throwing my arms around him and asking the gods to erase the last few days, as if they never happened. I catch myself sometimes wishing I could still hold his hand in the darkness of a movie theater – gripping it ridiculously tight, pressing it so close to my adrenaline-pumping heart when the scary parts come on. I half-fantasize about him showing up at my door, professing his own brand of love poetry, saying that he’s just a boy standing in front of another boy asking him to love him. I’ve daydreamed that he would surprise me after work, not take no for an answer and whisk me away to some exotic tropical location for the weekend – I wouldn’t agree right away; I would put up a fuss of course, but just to make sure he knows I wasn’t such a push over. The variations of these only-in-a-movie scenes and fairytale tableaus that run in my head are endless.

It’s really all I can think of. Second chances. Considerations. Back and Forths.

But then the Prada-wearing devil in me holds me back. Armed with pride and stubbornness, all he has to do is reminds me of the last few months. And as if temporarily transported into a courtroom, the devil begins to razzle dazzles me with evidence so rationally eloquent. I hear transcripts of incriminating words and phrases. I see pictures of messages, videos of events.  Then the feelings come back. My heart drops into the acidic chasms of my stomach. It hurts. It burns. I see the judge bang his hammer on the table, face fiery with anger, repeatedly mouthing one word as saliva erupts from his lips. I see it all unfold, but I hear only an uncomfortable ringing in my ears. Even then, I know what that word is.

Guilty. Guilt. For him and for me. 

How I wish things turned out differently… How I wish he tried harder to reassure me… How I wish I tried harder to be reassured. But it’s over now. And he’s far too practical of a lover to fight the flow of things already in motion. So I’ll continue to walk away. Walking away with my head turned slightly to one side, listening for the off-chance that he might call my name, turning around every so often to see if he’ll come after me. I don’t think he will. But I’ll keep turning around every so often just to make sure… I’ll keep turning till I’ve walked so far away that I don’t see him anymore. I hope by then, It won’t hurt that much.

It doesn’t matter how you count it.

11 months. 9 months. 2 trips abroad. Because it’s what can’t be counted that matters. The countless nights asleep in each other’s arms. The smile on my face when he called me Pogi. The way his hand fit perfectly into mine like two pieces to a puzzle. The fuzzy feeling I got when he put his lips to mine. That’s what I miss. That’s what I want back.

I loved him. I still do. That’s what matters.