A mixture of gnawing indignation and waning stoicism left me with an inexplicable urge to pen something. I might be a little better at making peace with myself when I'm intoxicated but alcohol only fortifies my growing disillusion — I don't need that tonight. I'm blessed with enough cynicism to last me another a decade.

Funny how, for once in 2017, I longed for someone to prove me and my darned scepticism wrong. My bad, I was so desperate to be wrong, I made an erroneous assessment, a fallacious assumption that it was safe to tear down my walls. To my chagrin, my unerring sense of intuition hit the nail on the head. Again. "You should've listened," the staccato murmurings that flooded my mind reiterated. Yes, I should have listened my injudicious self. The irony.

You court spontaneity — one that's on a brink of recklessness — as ardently as I once did. We're identical to a fault. In a parallel universe, we would have been kindred spirits. Soulmates. Better halves of each other. But in this, our rapacious thirst for success only pulls us apart.

Behind the towering walls I erected — the same ones I allowed you, a stranger, to tear down — I have long forgotten how dismay tasted; how disappointment is an obstinate refusal to leave until it shatters you over and over; how despondency comes in willful, unyielding waves. In the face of calamity, I reverted to my 15-year-old self — a meek, timorous adolescent who was eager to please.

I don't know what's expected of me now. Should I keep up my sardonic humour? Am I supposed to glow with misplaced pride and laugh your caprices off? Or impersonate the role of an impassive mortal? What can I do to eradicate the swirl of rueful remarks — my defence mechanism — that are threatening to whittle me down?

My ostentatious display of defiant fortitude continues to conceal my proliferating despair. Maybe that's enough. Perhaps one day, we'll find our place in this world.

12am.

I was there when at 14, 17, 20, 21... But never to listen to waves crashing against the shore, never on serene nights like that. I chattered endlessly for I was certain if I stopped speaking, someone would've heard my palpitating heart. I don't know why I agreed to something my usual cautious self would have never dreamt of. It seems that, no matter your age, heartbreaks turn you silly and mindless.

1am. 

I'm not sure when would our paths will cross again after that night, but meeting him reaffirmed my belief that we came from worlds apart. I liken us to two zigzag lines, crossing paths once in a while but deviating further after each time. That wasn't to say I regret him. I'd always be thankful I let him in, thankful he taught me so many lessons, thankful he allowed me to feel love again.

When his gaze met mine, everything felt the same. My world brightened up again, with just his pure existence.  But his arms are so used to someone else now that they felt awkward around me.

That night, I saw her — the girl I could never be. I hope she grows to love him as much as he adores her. I hope she loves him the way I wanted to. I hope she never breaks his heart. I still wish him happiness. All the happiness in the world that I wanted to, but couldn't, give.

2am. 

I'm too young to be having quarter-life crisis.
Have I made the right decisions that will lead me to become a better person?

I'm too old to be trying something new.
Every decision I made this year made a turn for the worse. I feel so inadequate and, in turn, scared.

3am. 

I spoke of my first love, my longest relationship. Our dates revolved around hanging out at the pathetic shopping mall near our school. We threw the word 'forever' around — didn't we all thought we'd marry our first love? The corner of your lips turned upwards, because you did too.

I don't remember how he tricked my shy teenage self into holding his hands, I don't remember how my heart probably went wild when we first hugged but I remember the location of our first kiss. The unromantic location, in hindsight, is the only reason my first kiss remained fresh in my memory.

How is he doing? I'd never know. It's true that your first love hurts you the most.

4am. 

What do you do when a girl's first supposed hero happened to also be a villain in disguise? I spent the first few years of my life tossing and turning in bed at night until he carried me down the streets of Clementi, teaching me to read signs with his limited vocabulary. 20 odd years later, I still battle insomnia daily; instead of him, now I seek solace in books and occasionally, laying words down side by side.

The night faded. Y2K, suddenly I was four again, the crybaby who was afraid of school. A gross mixture of mucus and tears smeared my face as I begged, "I don't wanna go to school." Those two hours in nursery felt like days; days grew into months, months into years. My desire to become a student 17 years later, ironically, became the cause of our most recent confrontation.

5am

It hit me when I took a whiff of his cologne.
Some things a girl never forgets.

6am. 

He was my second. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. What have I done wrong? I'm sorry. Speak to me. Tell me what's wrong. I will be better for you. I'm sorry. I'm begging you. Everything he took from me during the two years we were together... I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth. He returned my all — every bit of my heart, my love and my pride — with prevarication.

I never want to remember, but I always do. The sweet surprises, his first book out, nightly phone calls during his BMT, action movies I always fell asleep watching, every book in, his POP / POC / ORD. Then, words that stung more than the things hurled across the room, constant yelling, a broken phone on the floor, and the steep descent from  "you're my motivation"  to "I stopped trying to love you."

The waves got stronger as they attempted to cleanse me of my fears. Had I imagined it?
Hearts heal, but scars always remain.

7am. 

And then there's you.

The insufferable distance closed as he drew me in. He wrapped his arms around my waist and a familiar sense of longing enveloped me. Warm, safe, tender — what homes are made of. Damn, I thought, how did I get so lucky again. I found home. I never met a person worth staying for, then suddenly I had someone I wanted to return to. I sighed deeply. If this isn’t the epitome of trite and cliché…

Ravished by his sudden embrace, I revealed a beatific smile — a heartfelt one from deep within my heart — and in my chest, a psychedelic of fireworks threatened to burst anytime. The rush of adrenaline was repulsive in hindsight but in that moment, I was light-headed and saturated with euphoria. The bliss I radiated was palpable, unmistakable even to the blind.

But that’s what I was — blind. 

I mistook affability for affection, solicitude for endearment, benevolence for passion. His blithe disregard for my wretched self was blatantly obvious. Etched in his heart was a mission for utter destruction yet he remained ecstasy to my credulous self.

When the next ray of sunshine streamed through my window 1923 kilometres away, the happiness I grew used to dissipate. It didn’t just vanish. No, that’ll be just too mellow, too merciful. Instead, the euphoria that cloaked me gradually waned. Fleeting, ebbing happiness — the kind I’m destined to have all my life. It faded, ever so gently. Just like how he once was with me.  

The comforting voice that I sought solace in has lost its words. One moment I was high on love — that stupid morphine on steroids. The next, darkness swallowed me. Its raucous roar almost deafening, a relentless taunting. That sick, twisted, familiar ache in my stomach grappled what was left of me. The ever-growing, intense fear filled my lungs and crawled its way to my chest with an obstinate refusal to leave. The lump in my throat swelled; even swallowing was arduous.

He left nothing but lingering stains following his evanescence — an unyielding look of disdain in the mirror, and my friends’ assumption that my heartbreak will sink into oblivion eventually.

Memories are easily forgotten.
Photos inevitably fade.
Everything is impermanent.

Everything, but the triumvirate of fear, pain, and how I felt — insolently feel — towards him.

~

Inspired by the novel, The Girl On The Train.

You liked me. You liked how I rose above my struggles. You liked that I never let poverty come in the way of doing what I love. You liked my dreams. And I liked you. All of you. Even the parts that couldn't love. Your touch stained my skin, your existence my breath. I struggled to breathe — a rare occasion where I wanted to — for with every breath, I tripped on the familiarity of you. The exact same air of familiarity that choked me.

I can't let you in. It's dark inside. Trite as it sounds, I can't let my awful thoughts taint your beautiful soul. You don't understand. When I am the light, I am easy to love. I'm a good listening ear, I laugh heartily, I run around, I'm affable and gregarious, I eat a lot. When the switch turns off, I grapple with my issues. Suicide attempts. Eating disorders. BPD. But come what may, I took life in my stride. I always dealt with my issues my own way, and I survived 21 years somehow.

But I'm still a victim of my twisted mind, and I will die suffocated by my thoughts. I never intended to let anyone stay because I know I will die by my hands someday. I can't hurt those who love me. I don't talk anymore because I don't need anyone. The same way no one needs me in their lives. I am fine on my own.

Humans are the most adaptive spices? Bullshit. Have you met the demons that torment me? I tried to drown my demons with liquor, only to find that they have freaking learnt to swim. I joustled and I hustled yet with just a yank, they drew me over. I'm hell bound; it gets darker each time I blink. We're on the same sides, my demons and me.

It's woven in my soul — I am my demon now.

It's been months and I still can't bring myself to delete your texts, as if the longer I keep them, the more you'll miss me and maybe — just maybe — one day you'll pick up your phone to reply my messages again. As if that mortifying action would remove the saccharine imprint of you in my life. As if you haven't already left and erased me from your memory. It's a tragic, pitiful move so utterly pathetic, it's actually comical if it wasn't happening to me.

“It's time to move on.”

Just how many times have I chanted this to myself? Did I truly believed that by iterating this line, I can effortlessly shrug off the thought of you? That my recollection of you will fade as hours race by? That the notion of what could have been will stop creeping into my mind as the first light creaks through my windows at every crack of dawn?

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.


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.

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.

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.

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.

the pain consumes you like a monster, overwhelming you, causing you to suffocate and somehow, you relish the pain because that's all you ever know of.

you feel a tight feeling in your chest, something that tells you your heart is still beating and you're still alive. you should be thankful that you're alive but you just want to be dead, for maybe a day. what's that called? oh yes, sleep.

you try to sleep but whenever you shut your eyes, you remember the pain - the pain beating in your chest and that overused, cliche quote about how pain demands to be felt suddenly makes so much sense to you.

time is no longer on your side, you don't know what to feel. sure crying doesn't solve anything but you may feel better after crying it out. the only problem? you're so sick and tired the tears don't even flow anymore.

so you worked. you worked so hard to forget everything. sometimes only leaving the office at 10pm. everyone around you tells you to find work life balance but you just want to bury yourself and forget everything else.

you drank, and you drank a lot. you know your limits yet you went beyond, you tried drowning yourself in liquor, not because it solves anything but because you're better off not remembering anything. you get so drunk you don't remember how you got home that night.

the aroma of whiskey follows you as you climb on your bed and when you lie there, that's when it begins again. first the emptiness then waves of... you don't even know what it is. waves of a mixture of different feelings just keep hitting you.

you can't forget that sick feeling at the bottom of your stomach that slowly sneaks up on you when you're caught unaware. that feeling that causes you to lose your breath.

come on, how can you forget how to breathe when you've been doing this for more than two decades???

ha, you're such an idiot, you don't deserve to breathe. go to hell.