To the one who thinks I don’t care,
It’s 03:01 am and to be honest, I am embarrassed to be missing you at this strange hour, more so when I pledged to just let you go to hell the last time we fought (yet again). Not that I was impervious to your “kind” words, just that we were arguing so often that I decided it was better to just let things be, to just stop talking. I know it wasn’t the best thing to do but it felt like partitioning the country to prevent further chaos and a possible civil war. Nonetheless, the chaos persists, now at two different places (or people).
I don’t know if you have really moved on. Truth to tell, some part of me rejoiced when you said you had learnt to live without me, that you no longer waited for my calls or texts. The reason? Because as much as I hate to admit, I know I was hurting you by doing (obliviously) that which meant so much to you but nothing to me (or perhaps, by not doing it). It felt redeeming to not be the one who kept hurting you. But then again, there was a part of me that sank. The first time you called me by my actual name and not the usual nickname, I knew the ship had hit the iceberg. Next when you began to hang up the phone abruptly, I knew the ship was sinking. Finally, when you stopped talking, I knew it was too late for a lifeboat. But we kept coming up to the surface, gasping for breath, even hoping to survive. And every time we went back down and came back up again, I could somehow see the shore. But well, as misunderstandings shall have it, not for too long.
I know we’re drowning, again. Deeper than before. So deep I fear I might not see the shore again. If that’s the case, I just want you to know that I’ll miss you. A lot. Enough to write another letter.