I always regret

May 13, 2016

Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl / Photo credit

I never thought much of us; you were simply someone I bumped into a lot when we were still in school. I guess things happen when you least expect them to. Now, I don't enjoy small talks but thousands of miles, two continents and two time zones away, we bonded over our crazy lives. We shared problems we faced, you knew most parts of my cataclysmic past and I knew the stories you kept close to your heart.

It's you.

After three years, your continual careworn expressions finally made sense to me and our late nights proved to be cathartic for me. We laughed over the same things and both agreed our dark sense of humour guaranteed us a place in hell.

Our ubiquitous chemistry was undeniable, even among mutual friends who thought our friendship was completely bizarre. We were but a madcap match that happened to come together via an equally peculiar twist of fate.

It began, abruptly but gradually. 

I was petrified. Mortified. Terrified. I told you my fears. I didn't want the same thing to happen again. Once is enough to scar me and scare me away from love. I didn't want to fall again, not at that point at least. Especially not when both of us weren't ready, when the time ahead was, and still is, so unclear.

You had no control over your situation. You're going away whether you liked it or not and I wasn't not sure if I could deal with another two years of that cycle again. Wavering faith or selfishness — whatever you call it — I was hesitant about waiting two years for an uncertain future.

Yet there I was, contradicting myself. You were the first person I wanted to run to with my good news. You were the one I wanted to share my joy and sorrow with. I was so distracted by the glitz and glamour in my life at that period of time that I failed to notice the glaringly obvious.

As rapidly as it began, it faded at a whirlwind speed too.

I knew it's difficult to work it out so I chose to escape. Detaching myself emotionally, it became more of an obligation than eagerness to speak to you. Then again, what obligation?

We were never anything to begin with. Just friends who were headed towards the same direction. Two lines made to cross paths with each other for a fleeting moment before leaving behind a longing sense of what could have been.

That day I let you walk out of my life.

My stomach churned and dropped. I felt every atom of my skin jumping at me, willing me to say something. My shaking lips parted but nothing came out. They suddenly felt foreign — like they didn't belong to me and I never had lips to begin with.

My throat felt too tight, the words I should have spoken couldn't find their way through; I knew if I forced it, my cheeks would have been stained with tears. My palms grew wet — a natural occurrence whenever I get nervous.

Paralysed by indecision, I was deaf to everything except my beating heart, a sound that misled me into thinking what I had was real when in fact you were the only person at that point who genuinely wanted to help.

I should have spoken up that night but their words clouded my judgement and the worst thing is knowing that I allowed them to do so. Willingly. I have no one else to blame. I let others get to me when they didn't know what we had. I let their words thwart my decision in telling you the truth. A colossal mistake.

I never thought of apologising until it's too late. Till this day, I'm still a coward and I dare not even say this to you personally. I let my pride get in the way. I'm sorry.

I miss you.

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